SOUTHWEST 


WILL  HROBiNSON 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 
Gift  of 

THE  ESTATE  OF  BARTLETT  B.  HEARD 


U 


J\  -V 


YARNS 


of  the 


SOUTHWEST 


BY 

WILL  H.  ROBINSON 


Published  by 

THE  BERRYHILL  COMPANY 
Phoenix,  Arizona 


CHANDLER  ARIZONAN  PRESS 
Chandler,  Arizona 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  STORY  OF  ARIZONA 
A  History 

THE  MAN  PROM  YESTERDAY 
A  Novel 

THE  GOLDEN  PALACE  OF  NEVERLAND 
A  Juvenile 

THE  WITCHERY  OF  RITA 
Short  Stories 

HER  NAVAJO  LOVER 
A  Novelette 


Copywright,  1921 

by 

WILLIAM  HENRY  ROBINSON 
All  rights  reserved 


TO 


HERBERT  F.  ROBINSON 

Who  came  to  the  Southwest  in  stage-coach  days,  and  for 
years  took  his  place  in  camp-fire  circles  and  "swapped" 
yarns  and  fables  of  the  Desert  Country. 


CONTENTS 


THE   DESERT   4 

FOREWORD   5 

THE  MULE  THAT  DIED  OF  TOO  MUCH 

IMAGINATION 9 

SOUTHWESTERN  JUSTICE 12 

THE  GROWING  SALVE 14 

HE    WOULDN'T  LET  HER  SUFFER  15 

HEAVEN,  HELL  AND  HEAT 17 

WITH  HEALING  ON  ITS  WINGS 21 

THE  GRAND  BOUNCE 22 

TO  THE  BITTER  END  24 

THE  WAY  THEY  GROW  AT  SALOME  27 

MYTHICAL  ANIMALS 29 

THE  SIDE^HILL  BEAR  30 

THE  GILAOPOLIS  31 

A  BASHFUL  ONE  33 

OSTRICH  EGG  FOR  ONE  36 

THE  GRATEFUL  RATTLESNAKE  44 

THE  LADY  AND  THE  LARIAT 49 

LITTLE  BILL'S  BANDIT  65 

MY  ARIZONA  BEDROOM  .  ..  86 


THE  DESERT 


Gaunt  cacti  menace  with  their  cruel  thorns ; 
The  air  is  filled  with  quivering,  scorching  heat ; 
A  sky  of  molten  brass,  a  withering  sun  that  scorns 
To  mercy  give.    A  traveler  reels  with  staggering 
feet. 

The  wind's  hot  breath  a  palsy  brings ; 
Thirst  maddens  with  its  gripping  pangs ; 
The  rattler  strikes;  the  scorpion  stings — 
These  are  the  flame-mad  desert  fangs. 


And  then  November's  cooling  breezes  blow, 
And  with  reviving  softness  comes  the  rain; 
In  quiet  spots  sweet  herbs  and  flowers  grow. 
And  beauty  broods  o'er  rock  and  hill  and  plain. 


The  mocker  throats  a  song  in  rapturous 
The  palo  verde  flowers  in  rarest  art ; 
The  desert,  healed  of  all  its  heat-wrought  pain, 
To  those  who  love  it,  shows  a  golden  heart. 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 


FOREWORD 


THE  TENDERFOOT 

The  impressions  that  greet  the  tenderfoot  upon 
his  arrival  in  the  American  Southwest  crowd 
each  other  in  rapid  succession.  One  of  the  first 
convictions  to  sink  into  his  mind,  and  perhaps 
one  that  never  leaves  it,  is  that  its  denizens  are 
as  friendly  a  people  as  are  to  be  found  upon  the 
face  of  the  earth.  The  true  native  will  share  al- 
most anything  with  him — especially  his  climate, 
his  dinner,  his  debts  and  his  favorite  story. 

Naturally  the  Southwest  flaunts  much  that  is 
strange  and  unfamiliar.  The  newcomer  asks 
many  questions;  the  Arizonan,  Texan  or  New 
Mexican  is  more  than  glad  to  answer  them.  He 
answers  some  questions  before  they  are  asked. 
Usually  after  about  the  third  day  the  tenderfoot's 
thoughts  crystalize  into  some  such  formula  as 
follows : 

"If  a  native  tells  you  anything,  it's  a  lie." 

A  week  later  he  changes  it.  "If  the  story 
sounds  like  the  truth,  it  undoubtedly  is  a  lie;  but 
if  it  sounds  like  a  lie,  it  may  be  true." 

However,  along  toward  the  end  of  the  month, 


6  YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

the  man  from  Elsewhere,  if  he  is  of  the  elect, 
begins  to  have  his  ears  quickened  by  the  real 
heart-beat  of  the  West,  and  is  ready  to  accept 
that  article  in  the  creed  of  the  Hassayamper 
averring  that  sometimes  the  hyperbole  of  the  ra- 
conteur may  contain  more  truth,  which  after  all 
is  often  only  relative,  than  the  exact  numerals  of 
the  statistician. 

THE  HASSAYAMPER 

But  perhaps  exactly  what  a  Hassayamper  may 
be  needs  explanation.  Just  as  the  gold-seekers  of 
California  were  called  "Forty-niners"  and  the 
pioneers  of  the  Yukon  are  "Sourdoughs,"  so 
those  hardy  souls  who  came  to  the  deserts  and 
mountains  of  the  Southwest  when  one  still  trav- 
eled in  stage  coaches,  when  flour  and  bacon  and 
beans  were  brought  overland  in  sixteen-mule 
freight  wagons,  when  national  banks  were  scarce 
and  faro  banks  were  plentiful,  when  springs  of 
amber-colored  fluid  gushed  perennially  at  such 
moist  oases  as  the  "Palace"  or  "Congress  Hall"— 
these  were  the  Hassayampers. 

Now  be  it  known  that  the  Hassayampa  is  a 
river,  sparkling,  beautiful  and  picturesque  in  its 
upper  reaches  in  the  pine-covered  mountains  of 
Yavapai,  but  later  losing  both  sparkle  and  char- 
acter in  flat,  torrid  sands  of  the  desert  south- 
ward where  it  joins  the  Gila. 

In  the  early  days  painted  savages  fought  many 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST  7 

a  battle  along  its  bed,  Spanish  friars  used  its 
crystal  drops  in  holy  baptism  and  miners  drew 
from  its  depths  water  for  their  arrastras;  and 
from  then  until  now,  along  its  banks,  men  have 
toiled  and  quarreled,  gambled  and  loved. 

In  time  legends  were  born  about  the  mystical 
qualities  of  its  waters.  Some  say  that  he  who 
drinks  above  the  ford  can  never  tell  a  lie,  while 
the  antithesis  of  this  is  true  of  one  who  drinks 
below.  Others  turn  the  saying  around, — only  na 
two  will  agree  upon  which  is  the  proper  ford! 

The  legend,  though,  that  has  the  sound  verifi- 
cation of  time  as  well  as  the  sanction  of  antiquity- 
is  that  any  one  who  drinks  from  any  place  along 
the  river  will  never  know  either  the  extremes  of 
poverty  or  riches,  in  thought  will  always  be  the 
most  incorrigible  of  optimists,  in  speech  the  most 
graceful  of  romanticists,  and  should  he  ever  be 
so  unfortunate  as  to  leave  Arizona,  he  will  always 
come  back. 

So,  gentle  stranger,  if  you  arrive  in  Arizona 
too  late  to  be  a  Hassayamper  by  the  rule  of  an- 
tiquity, drink  from  the  pellucid  waters  of  the 
stream — after  the  sediment  has  settled — and  thus, 
so  to  speak,  become  one  of  the  Brotherhood  by 
bibulation. 

THE  YARNS 

The  following  yarns  have  been  collected  from 
many  sources.  To  get  the  true  flavor,  imagine 


8  YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

them  told  in  golden  sunshine  on  a  winter  after- 
noon by  some  ancient  Uncle  Noah  in  an  old-time 
Tucson,  Phoenix  or  Albuquerque  corral  where 
stages  stopped,  where  freighters  rested  their 
stock  between  trips  and  where,  on  Sunday  after- 
noons, a  young  man  could  rent  a  shining  "side- 
bar" runabout  from  "Back  East"  to  take  his  best 
girl  buggy  riding.  Others  of  the  yarns  were 
doubtless  first  related  around  a  camp-fire  at 
night,  at  the  spring  round-up,  at  a  chance  meet- 
ing of  a  couple  of  prospectors  or  on  a  hunting 
expedition.  In  any  event,  there  is  an  odor  of 
fried  bacon  and  flapjacks  in  the  air,  smoke  ris- 
ing from  hand-rolled  cigarets  like  incense  to  the 
gods  of  out-of-doors,  with  the  far-away  yipping 
of  coyotes  for  orchestration. 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 


THE  MULE  THAT  DIED  OF  TOO  MUCH 
IMAGINATION 


We  had  been  looking  for  cattle  along  Tonto 
Creek  and  after  supper  one  night,  as  is  the  cus- 
tom, mingled  yarns  with  our  devoirs  to  Lady 
Nicotine. 

"Speaking  of  imagination/*  began  a  big,  awk- 
ward, good-natured  cowboy,  rejoicing  in  the  out- 
rageous cognomen  of  Petty  Briggs,  "the  most 
imaginative  being  I  ever  knowed  was  a  mule." 

"Two  legs  or  four?"  asked  old  Dad  Huddle- 
ford. 

"Four,"  replied  Petty.  "All  rapid  actors.  He 
was  a  beautiful  animal,  too — and  smart — why  he 
could  tell  how  many  drinks  I  had  aboard  just  by 
looking  at  me." 

"How  high  could  he  count?"  asked  Dad  mo- 
rosely. 

"But  he  died,"  continued  Petty,  his  voice  chok- 
ing with  emotion,  "froze  to  death — last  August — 
down  at  Gila  Bend." 

The  resentful  look  of  a  man  who  suspects  his 
credulity  is  being  trifled  with  came  swiftly  into 
the  old  man's  face.  "Don't  you  lie  to  me,  Petty 
Briggs!  Gila  Bend!  August!  Freeze!  It  never 


10          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

got  below  a  hundred  the  whole  enduring  month' T 

"That's  just  it,"  assented  Petty  sadly.  "You 
see,  I  had  been  foolish  enough  to  plant  ten  acres 
of  popcorn.  The  neighbors  warned  me  agin  it,  but 
I  didn't  take  their  advice.  I  had  a  fine  crop.  It 
had  been  growing  so  fast  that  the  noise  of  it 
used  to  keep  me  awake  nights.  It  was  all  ready 
to  pull  when  that  terruble  hot  day  came — a  hun- 
dred and  thirty-two  in  the  shade — and  no  shade! 
By  ten  o'clock  the  leaves  began  to  wilt,  by  eleven 
they  started  to  crisp  and  fall  back  from  the  ears 
of  corn.  You  can  imagine  what  happened  then — 
corn  began  to  pop,  of  course! 

"I  was  standing  under  the  brush  shade  taking 
a  drink  from  the  olla.  It  was  an  amazin'  grand 
sight,  like  white  fireworks  and  a  hailstorm  all 
in  one — and  the  noise — it  was  as  if  a  hundred 
rapid-firers  was  all  going  off  at  onct.  Neighbors 
heard  it  for  three  miles  and  thought  it  was  the 
Mexican  insurrectos  that  had  come  across  the 
Ene." 

"But  the  mule,"  insisted  Dad  crossly.  "If  I  wa» 
going  to  tell  a  story  about  a  mule  I'd  mention 
him  onct  in  a  while." 

"The  mule  was  in  the  story  all  right,"  said 
Briggs,  "only  you  couldn't  see  him  for  the  corn. 
He  was  a-standin'  right  in  the  middle  of  the 
patch,  lookin'  like  Stonewall  Jackson  at  the  battle 
of  Bunker  Hill,  with  the  shells  burstin' — " 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          11 

"Shells?"  interrupted  Dad.  "Be  ye  talkin'  about 
popcorn  or  walnuts?" 

"And  in  less  than  five  minutes,"  went  on 
Briggs,  "the  corn  had  covered  the  ground  and  be- 
gun to  drift  into  the  fence  corners.  By  this  time 
there  was  so  much  popcorn  in  the  air  that  it 
quit  lookin*  like  fireworks  and  began  to  look  like 
•now — the  way  it  slewed  around  and  drifted  into 
the  fence  corners.  I  could  see  the  mule  thought 
it  looked  like  snow,  too.  You  remember  about  his 
imagination.  He  tuk  one  look  around  and  began 
to  shiver — just  a  little  bit  at  first,  then  harder 
and  harder.  His  hair  got  all  rough,  and  he 
humped  himself  up  like  an  animule  does  in  a 
blizzard.  Pretty  soon  you  could  see  that  he  was 
so  cold  that  he  couldn't  even  shiver,  and  he  stood 
there  stiff-legged  with  his  head  hanging  almost 
to  the  ground.  I  could  barely  see  him  through 
the  falling  popcorn,  and  started  out  to  rescue  him 
when  he  fell  over  in  his  tracks.  I  tried  my  best 
to  get  to  him  but  had  to  give  it  up.  The  popcorn 
drifted  clear  up  to  my  waist  before  I  got  to  the 
fence,  and  I  was  darned  lucky  to  get  back  to  the 
house. 

"Well,  the  neighbors  come  the  next  morning 
and  helped  me  dig  the  pore  mule  out.  He  was 
froze  plumb  solid  when  we  found  him.  Believe 
it  or  not,  gentlemen,  just  as  you  please,  but  he 


12          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

was  so  cold  that  when  we  touched  him  he  frosted 
our  fingers." 

Petty  Briggs  sighed  sentimentally,  and  with  be- 
coming modesty  dropped  his  eye  lids.  With  one 
accord  we  looked  at  Dad,  who  promptly  rose  to 
the  occasion.  He  poured  a  cone  of  tobacco  on  a 
cigarette  paper,  rolled  it  and  ceremoniously 
handed  it  to  the  blushing  Briggs.  It  was  the  ac- 
colade— the  token  of  the  knightly  order  of  Mun- 
chausen  given  by  the  Master  Fictionist  to  the 
novice,  who  had  fairly  won  his  spurs. 

THE  MULE  THAT  DIED  OF  TOO 

MUCH  IMAGINATION 

Originally  appeared  in  "Arizona  Magazine."  Republished 
by  permission. 


SOUTHWESTERN  JUSTICE 


One  of  the  many  remarkable  men  who  lived  in 
the  early  Southwest  was  Roy  Bean,  of  Langtry, 
New  Mexico,  whose  sign  read,  "Iced  Beer  and 
Law  West  of  the  Pecos  River." 

Some  men  achieve  public  office  by  appoint- 
ment, others  by  the  suffrage  of  their  admiring 
constituents;  Bean  assumed  the  ermine  of  the 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          13 

justice  court  with  as  little  legal  formality  as  a 
man  might  employ  in  going  into  the  barbering^ 
business.  He  decided  that  there  was  a  good  open- 
ing for  a  live  justice  of  the  peace  at  Langtry  and 
so  hung  out  his  shingle.  That  was  all  there  was 
to  it.  As  a  side  line  he  ran  a  saloon  and  a  gen- 
eral store.  His  legal  library  consisted  of  a  copy 
of  the  Kansas  statutes  and  Webster's  dictionary, 
and  he  said  that  every  word  that  was  worth 
reading  about  law  was  in  one  book  or  the  other. 

Also,  he  never  troubled  himself  about  limits  in 
his  jurisdiction  or  authority.  One  day  he  tried 
a  man  for  cattle  stealing.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  the  prisoner's  guilt,  the  smell  of  the  altered 
brands  was  still  on  him.  "I  sentence  you  to  be 
hanged  at  sundown,"  said  Bean. 

The  rustler  laughed  at  him.  "You  can't  hang 
me,"  he  said,  "you're  only  a  justice  of  the  peace." 

"You  wait  till  sundown  and  see,"  said  Bean. 

And  the  man  saw  1 

At  another  time  a  stranger  fell  off  the  Pecos 
bridge  and  was  killed.  Bean,  promptly  assuming 
the  authority  of  a  coroner,  searched  the  body  and 
found  two  twenty-dollar  bank  notes  and  a  ten, 
besides  a  six-shooter. 

"The  court,"  said  Bean,  "fines  this  gentleman 
fifty  dollars  for  carrying  concealed  weapons. 
Constable,  give  me  the  fifty  dollars — you  keep 
the  gun." 


14          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 


THE  GROWING  SALVE 

"Yes,  sir,"  began  old  Uncle  Noah,  "them  sur- 
geons over  in  France  did  some  right  clever 
patchin'  up  of  our  soljers,  but  I'll  bet  if  old  Doc 
Goodfellow  hadda  gone  over  he'd  beat  the  hull 
lot.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  his  wonderful 
growin'  salve?  No?  The  time  he  made  his  big 
hit  at  the  Territorial  Fair?  Well,  you  see,  some 
hoys  were  puttin*  a  tame  coyote  into  a  pen  when 
his  tail  caught  in  the  door  and  was  cut  plumb  off 
at  the  roots. 

"I  tell  you  them  boys  felt  bad,  and  the  coyote 
wasn't  very  cheerful  himself.  They  sent  for  old 
Doc  Goodfellow,  of  course,  and  the  Doc  rubbed 
some  of  his  growing  salve  on  the  stub,  and  blame 
my  cats  if  a  new  tail  didn't  grow  right  out  while 
they  was  watchin'  it. 

"Then  them  boys  had  a  fine  idee,  and  rubbed 
some  of  the  stuff  on  the  cut  place  on  the  tail,  and 
sure  as  I'm  a  truthful  man,  another  coyote  grew 
out  of  the  tail,  only,"  here  Uncle  Noah  spat 
reminiscently,  "he  was  a  wild  coyote  and  they 
bad  to  kill  him." 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          15 


HE  WOULDN'T  LET  HER  SUFFER 

No  collection  of  Southwestern  yarns  would  be 
complete  that  did  not  contain  at  least  one  of  the 
many  wonderful  stories  told  by  John  Hance,  the 
Teteran  raconteur  of  the  Grand  Canyon. 

One  day  when  conducting  a  party  down  the 
Bright  Angel  trail,  a  vivacious  young  lady  with 
sentimental  blue  eyes  insisted  that  John  should 
tell  them  some  of  his  own  personal  history. 

"Surely  you  haven't  always  been  single,  Mr. 
Hance,"  she  insisted,  "an  attractive  man  like 
you!  Honestly,  weren't  you  ever  married?" 

Hance  looked  at  her  solemnly.  "Once,  but  it's 
a  private  matter,  and  I  don't  often  speak  of  it 
except  to  intimate  friends." 

"But  aren't  we  intimate  friends?"  challenged 
the  blue-eyed  one.  "I  feel  as  though  I  knew  you 
very  well,  indeed." 

"Do  you?"  brightened  old  John.  "All  right, 
only  don't  ever  repeat  what  I  tell  you;  it's  a  sort 
of  family  secret.  You  see,  when  I  was  first 
building  this  trail,  for  quite  a  spell  I  used  to  let 
myself  down  over  one  of  the  cliffs  by  a  rope. 

"One  day  my  wife  wanted  to  go  with  me,  but 
as  she  weighed  about  two-fifty  I  tried  to  keep 
her  from  it  She  was  headstrong  though,  insist- 


16          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

ing  that  I  let  her  try.  You  can  imagine  my  feel- 
ings when  letting  her  down  with  the  rope,  it 
snapped  in  two  and  she  fell  and  plumb  broke  her 

kg. 

"I  tied  the  rope  around  her  waist  and  tried  to 
pull  her  up,  but  she  was  too  heavy. 

"You  can  see  the  fix  we  were  in.  There  we 
were  down  at  the  bottom  of  a  hundred-foot  cliff 
and  no  living  human  within  fifty  miles  or  more. 
I  finally  found  a  fissure  where  I  could  climb  out, 
but  couldn't  possibly  carry  my  wife.  It  was  awful 
sad!  We  both  cried  when  I  kissed  her  good-bye 
for  the  last  time  and  started  up  alone." 

"But  surely  you  didn't  leave  her  there  to  suffer 
and  go  off  by  yourself?"  exclaimed  the  senti- 
mental one  in  righteous  indignation. 

"Oh,  no;  I  didn't  leave  her  to  suffer,"  ex- 
pilained  old  John  soothingly.  "I  shot  her  first 
and  put  her  out  of  her  misery." 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          17 


HEAVEN,  HELL  AND  HEAT 

The  summers  of  the  Southwestern  deserts  are 
hot.  The  native  doesn't  deny  it;  he  boasts  of  it. 
It  is  summer  sunshine  that  gives  him  five  or  six 
crops  of  alfalfa,  that  improves  his  cotton,  that 
makes  his  grape  fruit  so  sweet  it  needs  no  added 
sugar,  that  adds  tonnage  to  his  raisins  and  flavor 
to  his  crop  of  figs. 

Still  one  must  confess  that  it  does  wilt  collars,, 
make  coats  superfluous  and  waistcoats  actual  ob- 
jects of  suspicion.  In  the  real  pioneer  times  when 
shade  trees  were  non-existant  and  ice  was  some- 
thing one  occasionally  read  about  in  eastern  news- 
papers but  never  saw,  it  must  in  truth  have  been 
a  thirsty  and  a  tropic  land.  No  wonder  so  many 
of  the  old  time  stories  have  scenes  laid  in  that 
orthodox  post  mortem  abiding  place  of  the  un- 
regenerate  sinful,  which  the  Hassayamper  be- 
lieved could  easily  be  compared  to  the  burning 
air  on  summer  desert  trails. 

The  earliest  of  these  yarns,  as  everybody 
knows,  had  to  do  with  the  soldier  from  Fort 
Yuma  who  found  hell  so  much  cooler  than  what 
he  had  been  used  to  that  he  sent  back  for  his 
blankets.  (Our  apology  for  mentioning  this 
hoary  tale  is,  that  like  the  story  of  Eve  and  the? 


18          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

apple,  its  very  antiquity  gives  it  a  certain  pres- 
tige.) Equally  honored  by  long  and  hardy  hand* 
ling  is  the  saying  regarding  the  alleged  necessity 
of  shipping  in  cracked  ice  from  California  to 
feed  the  hens  to  keep  them  from  laying  hard- 
boiled  eggs. 

Along  the  same  line  is  the  story  about  the 
corpse  from  Parker  who,  after  the  fire  in  the 
crematory  was  going  nicely,  sat  up  and  politely 
asked  the  attendant  to  close  the  crack  in  the  door 
as  the  draft  made  him  shiver. 

To  offset  these,  however,  there  is  the  tale  re- 
lated by  a  returned  visitor  to  heaven;  how,  no- 
ticing that  all  the  people  from  Prescott  were  kept 
in  gilded  cages,  was  given  the  explanation  that 
even  the  delights  of  the  celestial  abode  could  not 
make  these  folk  forget  the  beauties  of  the  Yav- 
apai  hills,  and  if  they  didn't  keep  them  locked  up 
they'd  all  go  back. 

This  is  a  kindlier  story  than  the  one  told  about 
the  hooks  in  the  lower  regions  where  they  had 

to  hang  the  arrivals  from  B up  to  dry  for 

a  week,  as  they  came  too  green  to  burn. 

There  is  a  persistent  tradition  that  if  a  tender- 
foot is  caught  looking  askance  at  thermometer 
maximums  for  July  there  is  always  a  real  estate 
agent  hard  by  who  will  say :  "But,  my  dear  sir, 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          19 

you  must  remember  that  owing  to  the  extreme 
dryness  of  the  atmosphere,  110  degrees  in  the 
Southwest  is  really  no  hotter  than  eighty  in  New 
York." 

The  worm  finally  turned  and  we  have  the  fol- 
lowing story: 

Once  there  was  a  real  estate  agent  from  (here 
insert  not  your  town  but  the  other  fellow's)  who 
died  and  went  to  his  proper  reward,  and  when  he 
got  there  the  devil  was  very  glad  to  see  him  and 
asked  him  if  he  would  like  to  inspect  his  quarters. 

The  real  estate  man  yawned  delicately,  said 
"Yes,"  and  remarked  that  he  wanted  a  private 
bath  and  a  pitcher  of  ice  water. 

At  this  an  imp  of  a  bell  boy,  with  little  horns 
sticking  out  under  his  cap,  grinned  openly  and  his 
majesty  started  leading  the  way  down  a  very 
long  hall.  The  further  they  went  the  hotter  it 
grew  until  the  pitch  began  to  ooze  out  of  the 
woodwork. 

"Aren't  we  almost  there?"  asked  the  real 
estate  man,  who  finally  was  beginning  to  get  de- 
cidedly nervous. 

"It's  the  last  room!"  said  the  devil. 

After  a  half  hour  more  of  going  they  reached 
an  apartment  where  they  found  the  furniture  all 
of  iron  and  glowing  a  nice  warm  pink.  Through 
an  open  door  they  could  see  the  bath  tub  full  of 
bubbling  pitch. 


20          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

The  devil  picked  up  a  red-hot  shingle  nail  from 
an  ash  receiver  and  lighted  his  cigaret.  "How 
do  you  like  your  quarters?"  he  asked  easily. 

The  real  estate  man  looked  at  the  smoking  sul- 
phuric acid  in  the  imp's  water  pitcher  and  wiped 
the  sweat  from  his  forehead.  "If s  a  little  hot, 
isn't  it?" 

"Not  the  sensible  heat,"  smiled  the  devil  pleas- 
antly. "Some  times  our  thermometer  registers 
pretty  high,  but  owing  to  the  extreme  dryness  of 
the  atmosphere  110  here  is  no  hotter  than  eighty 
in  New  York." 

"Seems  to  me,"  sneered  the  real  estate  man,  "I 
have  heard  that  chestnut  before." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  devil  cheerfully.  "You're 
told  it.  That's  why  you're  here!" 

However,  no  one  ever  summarized  the  climate 
of  the  Southwestern  desert  country  more  happily, 
perhaps,  than  did  the  minister  at  a  Yuma  ban- 
quet who  stated  that  while  the  people  were  most 
hospitable  and  the  town  beautiful,  the  local  field 
presented  unusual  difficulties  to  the  spiritual 
shepherd.  In  ministering  to  his  flock  he  found 
the  winters  were  so  delightful  that  heaven  could 
offer  no  further  charms,  while  in  summer  the 
weather  was  so  hot  that  hell  had  no  terrors! 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          21 


WITH  HEALING  ON  ITS  WINGS 

There  is  the  story  of  the  vivifying  qualities  of 
Southwestern  air.  A  man  "Back  East,"  lying  #t 
the  point  of  death,  wires  his  friend  in  Albu- 
querque to  come  and  receive  his  last  messages. 
The  Westerner  is  on  his  bicycle  when  the  message 
is  handed  him.  He  rides  hastily  to  the  station 
just  in  time  to  catch  his  train,  upon  which  he 
checks  his  wheel. 

Arriving  "Back  East,"  our  hero  peddles  madly 
to  his  chum's  house,  and  is  so  excited  he  trundles 
his  bicycle  directly  into  the  dying  man's  room. 
In  so  doing,  just  as  he  enters  the  chamber,  he 
runs  over  a  tack  and  the  air,  direct  from  the  Rio 
Grande,  hisses  through  the  puncture.  Laden  with 
healing  in  every  breath,  it  reaches  the  stricken 
patient's  lips.  The  effect  is  instantaneous;  the 
man  sits  up  half  well  already. 

The  New  Mexican,  on  the  moment  realizing 
what  has  happened,  jabs  a  pen  knife  into  the 
other  tire  and  holding  the  aperture  to  his  friend's 
mouth,  completes  the  cure.  Selah! 


22    YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 


THE  GRAND  BOUNCE 


We  asked  Bill  Huggett,  one  time  chief  guide  at 
the  Grand  Canyon,  if  he  knew  any  yarns  about 
the  big  ditch. 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  used  to  leave  the  yarns 
to  John  Hance,  but,"  he  added  thoughtfully,  "I 
know  a  true  fact  I  saw  once  personally,  that 
might  interest  folks. 

"It  was  about  nine  years  ago  last  June  when  a 
fellow  wearing  a  new  pair  of  rubber  boots,  on 
account  of  it  raining,  slipped  off  a  cliff  down 
near  Grand  View  and  dropped  three  thousand 
feet  to  a  flat  ledge  of  rock.  When  those  rubber 
soles  hit,  he  was  falling  so  fast  he  bounced  right 
back — plumb  up  to  the  rim  of  the  Canyon.  Down 
he  went  again  and  up  he  came  again,  and  kept 
on  a-doing  it. 

"Sometimes  he  would  only  get  half  way  up, 
some  times  two-thirds,  once  in  a  while  he  would 
strike  the  ledge  just  right  and  shoot  way  up 
above  the  edge,  where  the  whole  push  from  El 
Tovar — over  a  hundred  people — finally  stood  on 
the  trail  watching,  their  eyes  fairly  bulging  out 
of  their  heads. 

"It  was  a  terrifying  sight,  him  keeping  at  it 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          23 

that  way,  bouncing  up  and  down  for  three  days 
and  nights! 

"We  tried  to  rope  him,  but  he  was  going  too 
fast;  then  we  tried  to  get  down  to  the  ledge  and 
grab  him,  but  couldn't  make  it.  Finally — it  seems 
awful  to  tell,  but  you  can  see  it  was  the  only 
way  out  of  it — we  had  to  shoot  him  to  keep  him 
from  starving  to  death." 


24          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 


TO  THE  BITTER  END 

"What  was  the  queerest  thing  I  ever  seed  on 
the  desert?"  repeated  Uncle  Noah  to  Miss  Ten- 
derfoot. "Lemme  think.  I  reckon  it  must  have 
been  a  set-to  I  once  watched  between  a  road  run- 
ner and  a  rattler.  Now,  of  course,  you  know  that 
the  only  thing  on  the  desert  that  isn't  afraid  of  a 
rattlesnake  is  a  road  runner,  and,  contrary  wise, 
the  very  thought  of  a  road  runner  will  almost 
drive  a  rattler  to  drink. 

"Don't  know  what  a  road  runner  is?  Well, 
ma'm,  a  road  runner  is  a  bird  that's  somewhat 
larger  than  a  quail  and  smaller  than  a  chicken; 
it  can't  fly  and  it  can't  sing,  but  it  can  run  so 
fast  that  it  makes  a  coyote  look  as  though  he  was 
standing  still,  and  when  it  comes  to  eating,  an 
ostrich  whetting  its  appetite  on  rough  quartz  and 
shingle  nails  is  a  plumb  amateur  to  it;  horn 
toads  and  rattles  off 'en  the  end  of  snakes  of  that 
name  being  the  favorite  hunger-breakers  of  our 
feathered  highway  scooter. 

"But  what  I  started  to  say  was,  that  for  all  a 
road  runner  is  so  fond  of  rattlers  it  don't  get 
much  chance  at  them  on  straight  hunting  be- 
cause if  a  rattlesnake  hears  a  road  runner  com- 
ing a  mile  off,  he  goes  hiking  for  home  as  fast  as 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          25 

his  legs  can  carry  him — if  you  get  my  meaning. 

"Then  how  do  they  catch  rattlers?  That's  easy; 
they  trap  'em !  I  remember  well  the  first  time  I 
ever  seed  one  do  it,  though  he  didn't  exactly  get 
away  with  it  after  all. 

"Onct  when  I  was  prospecting  down  in  the 
Chiricahuas  I  was  sitting  under  an  ironwood  tree 
having  a  snack  of  tortillas  and  frijoles  when  a 
lady  road  runner  walks  past  carrying  a  piece  of 
cholla  branch  in  her  bill.  Just  about  twenty  feet 
beyond  me  she  drops  it,  goes  and  gets  another 
piece  and  puts  that  just  beside  it  and  hikes  off 
after  a  third.  I  begins  to  get  interested  and, 
keeping  mighty  quiet  and  still  like,  soon  gets  on 
to  what  she's  doing.  She  was  making  a  little  cir- 
cular fence  of  cactus  thorns  around  a  snake  hole, 
the  same  fence  being  about  a  yard  across  it. 

"  'Ah,  ha !'  sez  I,  having  heard  of  it  before,  'A 
rattlesnake  trap!'  Sure  enough  it  was. 

"It  was  about  a  hafan  hour  before  the  bird  got 
the  thing  done — nice  a  little  corral  as  you  ever 
seed,  about  five  inches  high  on  the  fence  line  and 
not  a  loophole  in  it. 

"Then,  with  another  piece  of  cholla  cactus  be- 
tween her  teeth,  she  steps  outside  the  fence  and 
waits.  At  the  end  of  about  an  hour,  out  cornea 
Mr.  Rattlesnake.  He  goes  as  far  as  the  fence, 
then  stops,  and  seeing  Mrs.  Road  Runner,  tries 
to  get  back  into  the  hole  again,  but  she  is  too 


26          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

spry  for  him,  jumping  over  the  fence  quick  as  a 
wink  and  stopping  up  his  hole  with  her  last  piece 
of  cactus. 

"Commencing  at  that  minute  was  the  prettiest 
fencing  match  you  ever  seed,  like  those  the  old 
time  bully  boys  used  to  have  when  they  fit  with 
swords  instead  of  civilized  guns  like  they  do 
now.  Only — you  must  'magine  one  sword  tipped 
with  pizen  and  the  other  opening  and  shutting 

on  the  p'int  like  scissors,  snapping  like  castanets 
and  quicker'n  lightning. 

"First,  Mrs.  Roadrunner  would  strike  at  the 
rattler  and  then  the  snake  would  vicy  versy, 
'round  and  'round  without  ever  stopping  a  second 
for  over  twenty-five  enduring  minutes  by  my 
old  key-winder,  and  me  almost  holding  my  breath 
in  excitement — one  critter  seeming  just  as  fast 
as  the  other,  and  each  just  a  hair  quicker  at 
dodging  than  he  was  at  hitting. 

"At  last  I  seed  that  it  was  like  when  a  man 
and  his  wife  gets  to  argufying — it's  endurance 
that  counts,  with  odds  in  favor  of  the  woman,. 
Mr.  Rattlesnake  was  getting  about  tuckered  out 
while  Mrs.  Roadrunner,  seemingly,  was  a  pert 
as  when  she  started. 

"Finally  she  gets  him  backed  up  agin  the 
fence  and  going  groggy,  but  he  doesn't  intend  to 
let  no  female  bird  kill  him,  not  much,  I  could  see 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          27 

that  in  his  eye.   He  was  a  proud  soul  if  he  was  a 
rattler. 

"What  does  he  do?  At  the  very  instant  Mrs. 
Roadrunner  is  pulling  back  her  head  to  give  him 
what  the  bull  fighters  call  the  coop  de  gracy, 
that  snake  nachuly  twists  his  head  around,  ties  a 
knot  in  his  neck  and  chokes  hisself  to  death." 


[Note  by  Editor. — This  yarn  might  have  been  sug- 
gested" to  Uncle  Noah  by  the  tradition  that  if  a  chaparral 
cock  catches  a  rattlesnake  asleep  he  will  build  a  cactus 
fence  around'  him.  When  the  reptile  awakens  and  discov- 
ers that  he  cannot  pass  the  barrier,  he  will  suicide  by 
striking  his  fangs  into  himself.  Uncle  Noah,  however,  in- 
sists that  if  a  road  runner  ever  did  find  a  rattlesnake 
asleep,  it  wouldn't  wait  to  build  a  fence;  one  stroke  of 
his  bill  would  end  things  forever  for  his  snakeship.  Be- 
sides, he  says:  "It's  plumb  true!  I  seed  it  just  as  I 
spoke  it!"  Who  are  we  to  cast  aspersions  at  a  truthful 
man?] 


THE  WAY  THEY  GROW  AT  SALOME 

Even  the   newspapers   of   the   Southwest,   at 
times,  seem  to  exhibit  a  certain  characteristic 


28          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

exuberence  in  their  articles  that  in  a  more  con- 
servative community  might  seem  almost  overly 
optimistic.  The  following  is  taken  from  Dick 
Wick  Hall's  Salome  Sun,  printed  on  a  mimeo- 
graph and  published  when  the  spirit  moves  the 
editor,  for  his  own  amazement : 

"Almost  everything  grows  well  here. 
Squint  Eye  Johnson  built  a  barn  last  year 
and,  on  account  of  the  high  price  of  lum- 
ber, cut  four  big  cottonwood  posts  and  set 
them  in  the  ground  for  the  corners;  nailing 
boards  on  to  complete  the  barn.  It  rained 
soon  after  and  the  corner  posts  started  to 
grow — and  it  kept  Squint  Eye  busy  all  sum- 
mer nailing  on  more  boards  at  the  bottom 
to  keep  the  cows  from  getting  out — and  now 
he  has  a  two-story  barn  and  uses  the  top 
story  for  a  hen  house.  Squint  Eye  says  one 
more  wet  year  and  he  will  have  to  buy  an 
aeroplane  to  feed  his  chickens. 

"Melons  don't  do  very  well  here  becuz  the 
vines  grow  so  fast  they  wear  the  melons 
out  dragging  them  around  the  ground — and 
in  dry  years  we  sometimes  have  to  plant 
onions  in  between  the  rows  of  potatoes  and 
then  scratch  the  onions  to  make  the  potatoes' 
eyes  water  enough  to  irrigate  the  rest  of  the 
garden — and  the  kids  sure  do  hate  to  scratch 
the  onions  on  moonlight  nights." 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          20 


MYTHICAL  ANIMALS 


There  is  one  particular  reservoir  of  yarns  oc- 
casionally drawn  upon  by  certain  prevaricators 
in  the  back-country  of  the  West  that  deserves 
special  mention. 

Just  as  the  story  teller  of  ancient  Greece  de- 
lighted to  fill  the  classic  land  of  Attica  with  such 
mythical  animals  as  the  centaur  or  the  gryphon, 
so  his  modern  western  prototype  conjures  from 
his  fertile  brain  a  little  imaginary  fauna  of  his 
own  and  scatters  it  about  his  neighboring  valleys 
and  hills. 

As  a  necessary  ingredient  of  a  successful 
wonder  tale  is  a  credulous  auditor,  so  this  par- 
ticular type  of  story  was,  and  still  is,  reserved 
for  the  specially  innocent,  often  being  used  to 
bait  a  particularly  callow  arrival  from  such  guile- 
less communities  as  Manhatten-on-East-River  or 
the  "L"  district  of  Chicago.  Also,  it  is  occasionally 
employed  as  part  of  the  ritual  in  advancing  a 
neophyte  in  a  cow  camp  from  the  open  range  of 
the  tyro  to  the  sanctuary  of  the  inner  corral,  so 
to  speak,  of  the  fellow  craftsman  and  master. 


30          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 


THE  SIDE-HILL  BEAR 

The  commonest  of  these  animals  is  the  side-hill 
bear.  This  interesting  beast  for  thousands  of 
years,  perhaps,  inhabited  such  remote  mountain 
peaks  as  the  San  Franciscos  in  Arizona  where, 
generation  after  generation,  it  circled  its  steep 
slopes,  always  moving  in  one  direction  and  with 
its  left  side  up  hill.  The  inevitable  happened.  Fol- 
lowing the  law  of  physical  adaptation  of  life  to 
environment,  in  time  the  left  legs  of  the  side-hill 
bear  became  very  short  while  the  right  ones  grew 
very  long. 

So  unusual  were  these  interesting  creatures 
that  the  Indians  revered  them  as  sort  of  demi- 
gods and  never  molested  them.  Perhaps  a  second 
reason  for  their  leaving  them  alone  was  that  not 
only  were  the  bears  savage  and  fearsome  fighters 
but  their  hides  were  so  thick  as  to  render  them 
impervious  to  arrows  and  bullets  alike. 

However,  when  the  white  men  did  appear  upon 
the  scene  with  their  guns,  a  hunter,  it  was  said 
to  have  been  old  Bill  Williams,  discovered  a  sure 
means  of  destroying  them.  With  the  intrepidity 
that  was  characteristic  of  the  veteran  frontiers- 
man, he  would  hide  by  a  trail  until  one  was 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          31 

fairly  upon  him,  when  he  would  fire  his  rifle  di- 
rectly into  its  face,  which  would  cause  the  fright- 
ened beast  to  turn  around,  and  as  his  legs  would 
then  be  upon  the  wrong  sides  for  equilibrium, 
down  the  mountain  would  roll  the  bear  and  break 
his  neck! 

Bill  Huggett,  the  San  Marcos  guide,  says  that 
the  species  are  now  all  but  exterminated. 


THE  GILAOPOLIS 


The  Gilaopolis,  which  still  roams  along  the 
more  sequestered  canyons  of  the  upper  Salt  and 
Gila  rivers,  belongs  to  the  same  general  family  as 
the  Gila  monster,  being  a  pinkish  salmon  in  color 
with  a  tasteful  over-pattern  worked  out  with 
black  markings,  but  there  is  this  great  differ- 
ence between  the  two,  where  the  smaller  lizard 
usually  is  not  more  than  fifteen  to  eighteen  inches 
in  length,  the  Gilaopolis  is  often  as  large  as  a 
big  calf. 

For  most  of  the  year  it  is  gentle  and  inoffen- 
sive, but  at  the  time  of  the  spring  round-up  it  is 
attacked  by  a  high  fever  which  nothing  seems  to 
allay  so  well  as  canned  fruit  juice.  For  this  rea- 
son, when  in  a  country  frequented  by  these  pe- 
culiar saurians,  a  chuck  wagon  is  liable  to  be 


32          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

raided  by  one  of  them  almost  any  night  when, 
breaking  open  a  fruit  case  with  its  powerful 
claws,  it  will  melt  the  solder  on  the  cans  with  its 
fever-laden  breath  and  greedily  drink  the  juice. 

If  molested  it  will  retire  quietly,  wholly  cured 
for  another  year,  but  if  interfered  with,  par- 
ticularly by  a  meddling  tenderfoot,  it  will  fight 
with  great  ferocity. 

As  an  illustration  of  how  harmless  a  Gilaopolis 
may  be  under  normal  conditions,  it  may  be  said 
that  Dick  Bowersox  larietted  one  once  at  his 
homestead  in  the  Sierra  Anchas  and  kept  him 
with  him  for  nearly  a  year,  where  he  used  to  fol- 
low him  about  like  a  dog  and  even  do  simple 
chores  like  carrying  in  wood  or  bringing  up  the 
cows.  The  following  spring,  though,  when  its 
fever  came  up,  there  being  no  canned  fruit  handy, 
the  big  reptile  broke  into  the  cellar  and  imbibed 
three  quarts  of  green  paint  and  two  gallons  of 
home  brew.  Naturally  "Heely,"  as  they  called  the 
pet,  acquired  a  beautiful  jag.  He  chewed  up  a 
week's  wash  that  was  out  on  the  line,  half  killed 
Dick's  white  faced  bull,  pushed  his  flivver  over  a 
cliff  and  then  ran  for  the  hills. 

Dick  now  uses  a  new  recipe  and  reverts  to 
strong  language  every  time  he  sees  a  lizard. 


[Note  by  Editor. — We  don't  think  much  of  this  yarn, 
but  as  it  helped  the  artist  out  with  the  cover  design  we 
are  letting  it  stand.] 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST    33 


A  BASHFUL  ONE 

The  next  animal  we  introduce  has  different 
characteristics  in  different  localities.  It  is  gen- 
erally described  as  having  a  body  like  a  zebra, 
legs  like  an  ostrich,  only  four  of  them  instead  of 
two,  and  a  head  and  tongue  not  greatly  unlike 
those  possessed  by  a  South  American  ant  eater. 

In  spite  of  its  head  the  creature  is  herbivorous, 
its  diet  usually  being  confined  to  the  fibers  of 
the  yucca,  the  hair-like  growth  on  the  pincushion 
cactus,  and  other  similar  ropish  herbage. 

While  naturally  bashful,  seemingly  sensitive 
about  its  looks,  at  times  it  develops  a  curiosity 
that  would  shame  a  blue  jay. 

A  few  summers  ago,  on  a  moonlight  night,  one 
of  the  species  visited  the  camp  of  a  hunting  party 
in  the  Mogollons,  where,  tempted  by  the  luxuri- 
ous whiskers  of  a  distinguished  California  au- 
thor, who  lay  asleep,  it  bit  them  off  so  quietly  its 
owner  did  not  even  waken. 

The  beast,  though,  seemed  to  try  in  a  meas- 
ure to  atone  for  this  liberty  by  an  attention 
ahown  another  member  of  the  party.  Sleeping 
next  to  the  Californian  was  a  professor  from  an 
Illinois  university,  whose  head  was  as  innocent 
of  hair  as  a  billiard  ball.  After  swallowing  the 


34          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

last  of  the  whiskers,  the  animal  shyly  ap- 
proached the  shining  dome  of  the  man  of  learn- 
ing and  thoroughly  licked  it  with  his  long  and 
rasping  tongue.  The  professor  sat  up,  grasping 
his  head  and  swearing  that  he  had  been  scalped. 
The  pain  from  which  he  suffered  subsided  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  although  several  of  the  party 
saw  the  beast  plainly,  it  escaped  before  they 
could  get  their  guns. 

The  most  peculiar  thing  about  the  occurrence 
was  that  within  a  month  a  thick  covering  of  hair 
appeared  upon  the  college  man's  head.  Unfortu- 
nately, though,  its  texture  resembled  Yucca  fiber 
and  in  color  it  was  quite  green. 

The  name  of  the  animal  ?  Pardon  the  omission* 
It  is  usually  called  the  Hellidid. 

[Second  Note  by  Editor. — This  yarn,  if  possible,  is 
worse  than  the  last,  so  instead  of  repeating  similar 
atrocities  we  will  simply  append  the  names  of  a  few 
more  of  the  creatures  when  the  reader,  by  letting  his 
imagination  soar,  can  fill  in  description,  habitat  and  cus- 
toms to  suit  himself.  If  any  one,  in  following  this  sug- 
gestion, is  specially  proud  of  his  handiwork  he  might  send 
the  result  on  to  us.  If  it  is  bad  enough,  or  even  good 
enough,  to  be  interesting  we  might  use  it  in  the  next  edi- 
tkm.] 

Here  we  have  them:  The  sneeze-duck,  the 
whiffletit,  the  koohopper,  the  giant  goober-bug, 
the  hoop  and  glass  snake  and  the  left-footed  bee- 
chaser.  There  are,  naturally,  others;  but  too 
much  is  a  plenty! 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          35 

In  telling  these  yarns  it  is  easy  to  appreciate 
the  advantage  the  Western  Ananias  has  over  the 
credulous  listening  stranger,  leading  him  gently 
from  the  known  to  the  unknown.  If  there  can  be 
scorpions,  tarantulas,  centipedes,  collar-lizards, 
chuckawallas,  horn  toads  and  Gila  monsters  all 
about,  cluttering  up  the  country,  why  shouldn't 
there  be  other  unusual  and  fearsome  things? 


36          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 


OSTRICH  EGG  FOR  ONE 


We  had  been  rounding  up  a  bunch  of  stam- 
peded ostriches  on  the  desert  south  of  Salt  River, 
and  after  a  most  exciting  day,  squatted  about  the 
camp  fire  for  supper. 

Petty  Briggs,  a  big  raw-boned  cowboy,  took  a 
tin  plate  from  the  cook  and  looked  at  it  hungrily. 
"If  I  had  some  ham,  I'd  have  some  ham  and 
eggs — if  I  had  the  eggs." 

"You've  got  your  wish,"  replied  the  cook,  con- 
cealing a  glow  of  triumph  with  a  large  air  of  in- 
tiifference.  "Ham  and  eggs  is  just  what  we're 
a-eatin'  tonight!" 

"Ham?"  repeated  Petty  incredulously. 

"The  same,"  replied  the  cook.  "I  found  it  in 
the  boss's  war  bag.  He  thought  it  was  one  of  his 
shoes." 

"An'  eggs?"  insisted  the  cowboy.  "Swipes, 
don't  you  trifle  with  my  tender  appetite." 

Swipes  looked  absently  at  the  waning  sunset 
"Juno  laid  one  this  afternoon." 

"Juno?  The  ostrich?"  The  question  came  dubi- 
ously, almost  gingerly. 

"Why  not?"  replied  the  cook.  "It  tastes  ex- 
actly like  a  hen  egg." 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          37 

"Hum,"  said  Petty.  "One,  did  you  say?  I 
usually  take  two." 

Old  Dad  Huddleford,  who  was  never  far  from 
the  chuck  wagon  at  meal  time,  looked  at  his  co- 
worker  with  pitying  scorn.  "Do  you  know  the 
bigness  of  an  ostrich  egg?" 

Petty  assumed  an  air  of  boredom.  "Certainly, 
I  said  I  usually  ordered  two." 

"You  do?"  sneered  Dad.  "I'll  bet  my  saddle 
against  yours,  you  can't  eat  one." 

Petty  jumped  at  the  challenge,  and  the  rest  of 
us  crowded  about  to  witness  the  spectacle.  Ex- 
pectancy trembled  in  the  air. 

The  cook  produced  an  elongated  spheroid  from 
a  water  pail.  In  both  size  and  looks  it  had  the 
general  appearance  of  the  shining  dome  of  a 
bald-headed  man. 

Petty's  lower  jaw  dropped  involuntarily.  "Is 
that  it?" 

"It  is,"  said  the  cook. 

There  was  a  gulp  from  the  cowboy,  then  he 
rallied  bravely.  "A  little  small,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  about  the  usual  size.  Of  course,  Juno  be- 
ing half  Nubian,  keeps  her  out  of  the  bantam 
class." 

Petty,  now  in  full  possession  of  his  usual  sang 
froid,  yawned  gracefully.  "Fm  sorry  you  haven't 
another  to  go  with  it,  but  if  there  are  plenty  of 
vegetables  I  guess  I  can  make  out  a  meal." 


38          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

Hatchet  in  hand,  with  a  firm  stroke  the  cook 
broke  the  shell  and  dropped  its  contents  into  a 
bowl.  Heaven  knows  the  thing  looked  big  enough 
before — now  it  was  appalling.  The  yolk  was  a 
giant's  yellow  door-knob  swimming  in  a  veritable 
sea  of  glutinous  liquid. 

"You  don't  want  to  double  your  bet,  do  you?" 
taunted  Dad  irritatingly. 

Petty  turned  his  back  on  him. 

Appreciating  the  momentous  nature  of  the  con- 
test, the  cook  ordered  us  all  away  from  the  fire. 
Soon  there  was  a  terrific  sizzling  in  the  big  fry- 
ing pan,  and  shortly  afterwards  Swipes  handed 
the  cowboy  a  huge  platter  heaped  with  golden 
scrambled  egg  and  garnished  with  strips  of  deli- 
cately browned  ham.  It  looked  good  and  smelled 
good.  Petty  grinned  his  appreciation  and  fell  to 
with  gusto. 

"Best  stuff  I  ever  tasted,"  he  said  with  smack- 
ing lips.  "Sorry  I  can't  let  the  rest  of  you  in  on 
this.  Maybe  Juno  will  lay  another  tomorrow." 

"Tastes  like  hen  eggs?"  asked  the  Tenderfoot. 

"Better.  I'm  plumb  ashamed  to  take  all  this 
good  stuff  away  from  you."  The  contents  of  the 
plate  diminished  by  half,  then  by  three-quarters. 
"Honest,"  asked  Petty,  "couldn't  I  have  some 
canned  corn,  an'  spuds  an*  tomatoes  an'  a  little 
more  ham  to  go  with  it?" 

The  cook  seemed  about  to  protest,  but  Old  Dad 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          39 

stopped  him.  "Sure,  give  him  a  good  meal.  I 
don't  mind  his  winning  my  saddle  when  he  does 
it  fair.  Petty,  you  are  sure  some  little  feeder. 
He  took  the  platter,  and  hurrying  to  the  fire 
brought  generous  helpings  of  various  dishes. 

There  were  more  gastronomic  performances 
on  Briggs'  part,  and  again  the  platter  was  clean. 

He  handed  it  to  Dad  with  an  air  of  ennui. 
"Sorry  to  take  it  away  from  you  so  easily,  old 
man.  Just  put  your  saddle  with  mine,  back  of  the 
chuck  wagon." 

Swipes  coughed  apologetically.  "Of  course,  you 
know  that  there  is  still  more  of  the  egg?" 

"Eh!"  exclaimed  the  startled  Petty.    "More!" 

"The  spider  wouldn't  hold  it  all,  and  I  was 
waiting  to  cook  the  rest  of  it  so  you  could  have  it 
hot." 

Petty  glared  unprintable  things  at  Old  Dad, 
then  smiled  airily.  "Sure,  I  knew  there  was  an- 
other spider  full.  I  was  just  forecasting,  so  to 
speak,  when  I  mentioned  about  the  saddle."  He 
pressed  his  fingers  softly  against  his  lips.  "Fix 
it  sort  of  straight  up,  this  time — and  put  in 
plenty  of  pepper." 

Swipes  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  Briggs  made  a 
gallant  attack  on  the  yellow  mass.  It  is  hard  to 
run  a  race  a  second  time  after  you  have 
thought  it  already  won,  and  the  cowboy  was 
sadly  handicapped  by  the  extra  viands  Dad  had 


40          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

given  him.  Still,  he  was  half  through  before  he 
showed  the  first  signs  of  wavering.  "Could  you 
give  me  a  little  black  coffee?"  he  asked  of  the 
cook.  "Just  a  little,  and  extra  strong?" 

He  drank  the  coffee  cautiously,  and  ate  another 
section.  "A  little  more  pepper,"  he  said  softly, 
and,  after  using  it  generously,  swallowed  down 
the  last  forkful.  "Didn't  think  I  could  do  it, 
Dad?"  he  asked  with  an  uncertain  smile.  "Well, 
the  saddle's  mine." 

Dad  regarded  him  with  the  hardened  look  of 
an  inquisitor.  "Of  course,  it  is — when  you  have 
finished  the  egg." 

Briggs  turned  very  pale,  and  there  were  al- 
most tears  in  his  voice  when  he  asked,  "Swipes, 
is  there  really  more?" 

"There  is." 

"Would  you  mind  letting  me  see  it?" 

As  the  cook  brought  him  the  bowl  the  rest  of 
us  looked  over  his  shoulder.  So  far  as  I  could 
see  there  was  just  about  as  much  as  when  the 
cook  had  started,  only  it  had  been  beaten  with  a 
fork,  and — it  didn't  look  quite  so  well. 

Petty  leaned  weakly  against  his  bed  roll.  "An- 
other little  drink  of  coffee!"  he  said  huskily. 

After  he  had  finished  the  coffee  he  ventured  a 
question.  How  many  eggs — hen  eggs — does  it 
take  to  make  one  of  those" — he  waved  his  hand 
feebly  toward  the  bowl — "of  those  things?" 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          41 

"Ginnerly  from  nineteen  to  twenty-two"  said 
Swipes.  "Juno's  run  about  twenty-six." 

"Two  dozen  and  two!"  said  Petty  solemnly. 
He  set  his  teeth.  "Cook  me  another  spider  full 
and  fry'em  hard!" 

Swipes  fried  them  hard,  while  Dad  Huddleford 
went  around  and  inspected  Petty's  saddle. 

The  cowboy  started  in  on  the  new  lot  with  well 
feigned  vigor — then  stopped.  "Swipes,"  he  said 
plaintively,  I  believe  you've  scorched  this  mess." 
He  appealed  to  the  rest  of  us.  "Do  I  have  to  eat 
the  rest  of  them  if  they  are  scorched?" 

"Sure  you  don't,"  replied  Dad  cheerfully,  "only 
one  of  the  ladigo  strings  on  the  saddle  I  just  won 
from  you  is  busted.  You'll  fix  it,  won't  you?" 

Hate  gleamed  in  Briggs'  eye,  and  he  doggedly 
ate  some  more  of  the  egg.  "How  many  have  I 
taken  now,  Swipes — figured  as  hen  fruit?" 

"Thirteen,"  and  the  cook  commenced  stirring 
the  rest  of  the  egg. 

Petty  looked  imploringly  at  Dad.  "Would  it  do 
if  I  just  chawed  them  and  not  swallow?"  he 
asked. 

"The  tree  of  that  saddle  what  used  to  be  yourn 
is  a  little  wider  than  I  like,  but  it'll  do,"  said  Dad. 

Petty  took  another  knifeful.  "Do  you  know," 
he  said  thoughtfully,  "we  are  awful  careless  to  be 
way  off  on  the  desert  this  way — with  no  doctor 
around?  Suppose  one  of  us  should  get  sick!" 


42          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

"It's  like  enough,  too,"  put  in  Dad,  speaking 
impartially  to  the  circle.  "After  you've  done  et 
thirteen  of  'em,  eggs  in  the  stomach  turns  to  rank 
pizen.  I  knowd  a  man  onct — " 

"Heaven  help  the  man  if  you  knowed  him  in- 
timate," remarked  Briggs  feelingly. 

"It's  on  account  of  the  albument,"  continued 
Dad.  "When  you  get  past  a  dozen  they  glue  the 
stomack  right  agin  the  back  bone.  That  man  I 
knowed,  he — " 

Petty  raised  his  eyes  beseechingly  to  the  cook. 
"Take  him  away,  Swipes,  will  you,  I  don't  re- 
quire him  any  more." 

Three  more  forkfuls  were  eaten  slowly  and 
methodically,  then  the  cowboy  stopped  and  the 
usual  ruddiness  of  his  face  seemed  to  fade.  "I 
left  my  spurs  on  a  bush  over  yonder,"  he  said 
wistfully.  "I  think  I'll  go  over  and  see — if  they 
are  all  right." 

Dad  smiled  beamingly.  "You  don't  need  to  go. 
I'll  be  glad  to  get  'em  for  you." 

The  delicate  color  of  the  cowboy's  face  grew 
almost  ethereal.  "If  you  get  'em  I'll  murder  you." 

"I  could  stew  the  next  lot,"  suggested  Swipes. 

Briggs  put  down  the  platter  and  rose  to  his 
feet  "Thank  you,"  he  said  with  careful  polite- 
ness, "I — I  won't  bother  you." 

"Or  boil—" 

Petty  departed  into  the  darkness.   Ten  minutes 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          43 

later  he  returned  with  a  look  of  angelic  peace 
upon  his  face  that  a  seraph  might  have  envied. 
"I  could  eat  the  rest  of  that  egg  if  I  wanted 
to,  and  do  it  easy,"  he  announced  serenely,  "but 
I  don't  want  to.  There  is  just  enough  left  for 
supper  for  the  ten  of  you,  omelet  for  breakfast 
and  griddle  cakes  for  the  rest  of  the  week.  Beau- 
tiful weather  we're  having,  don't  you  think?" 


44          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  GRATEFUL 
RATTLESNAKE 

"Yes,"  said  Uncle  Noah,  "there  are  still  a  few 
rattlers  left  in  Arizonay,  but,  land,  they're  not  a 
patch  on  what  they  used  to  be  when  I  first  came 
to  the  country.  Never  was  a  night  when  I'd  go 
out  walkin',  but  what  I'd  most  bust  my  toes 
stumbling  over  them,  and  when  I'd  get  back 
home  like  as  not  there'd  be  a  half  dozen  or  more 
I'd  have  to  kick  offen  my  door  step.  Dangerous 
to  kick  them?  Well,  that  depends  upon  how  you 
done  it.  If  a  man  was  rough  about  it — well — 
he'd  probably  be  bitten,  but  if  a  feller  kicked 
them  in  kindness,  so  to  speak,  they  would  rather 
cut  off  their  right  hand  than  to  harm  him.  I 
tell  you  even  a  rattler  appreciates  good  treat- 
ment. 

"Now  there  was  Doc  Goodfeller,  him  that  used 
to  live  up  on  Cortez  Street.  He  was  awful  fond 
of  animals — butterflies,  Gila  monsters,  and  sich; 
is  yet.  Whenever  he  meets  a  nice  dog,  he  always 
stops  to  pat  him — you  know,  that  kind  of  a  man. 

"In  the  summer  of  '81,  after  it  got  pretty  hot, 
he  sent  his  family  to  Prescott  and,  every  eve- 
ning, to  pass  away  time,  he'd  go  on  the  desert  and 
look  for  cottontail.  One  day  when  he  was  mosey- 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          45 

ing  around  among  the  greasewood  with  his  gun 
over  his  shoulder  he  found  a  rattlesnake  with  a 
broken  back.  Doc  was  going  to  kill  him,  but  the 
poor  thing  looked  so  reproachful  at  him  that  he 
didn't  have  the  heart.  Instead,  he  took  some  of 
the  inside  ribs  of  a  dead  suhuaro  and  used  them 
for  splints,  tearing  off  the  back  of  his  shirt  for 
bandages  ,and  honest  to  goodness  he  set  that 
reptile's  back  the  same  as  he  would  a  man's  leg. 
Doc  said  it  was  the  most  intelligentest  snake  he 
ever  seed — knowed  just  what  he  was  doing,  and 
tears  of  gratitude  ackchully  came  to  his  eyes 
when  he  got  through  and  turned  him  loose  on  the 
desert. 

"Most  anybody  but  Doc  would  have  thought  he 
had  done  something  pretty  big,  but  not  him;  he- 
was  so  used  to  being  kind  to  animals  that  he 
plumb  forgot  it  within  a  week.  About  a  month 
after  that,  though,  it  all  came  back  to  him.  You 
see,  he  was  out  on  the  desert  again,  and  at  almost 
the  same  place  he  saw  what  he  thought  was  a 
wild  rattlesnake  coming  at  him  as  though  he 
wanted  to  fight.  Doc  picked  up  a  club  and  was 
going  to  lam  him  one,  when  he  noticed  curious 
scars  on  the  critter's  back.  You  get  me?  It  was 
the  same  snake  he  had  fixed  up.  Doc  caught  on 
in  a  minute,  and  saw  fhe  reptile  was  coming  up 
to  greet  him  out  of  pure  affection.  He  told  me: 
afterwards  that  the  meetin'  was  awful  touching 


46          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

Snake  came  up  and  rubbed  agin  his  leg  just  like 
a  cat  does — and  purred! 

"Well,  Doc  stayed  there  and  petted  him  for 
quite  a  spell,  but  it  was  gettin'  late,  and  so  he 
finally  said  'good-bye'  and  started  for  home.  Of 
course,  he  thought  that  was  the  last  he  would  ever 
see  of  his  friend,  but  when  he  got  almost  to  the 
town  limits  he  happened  to  look  back  and  there 
was  that  rattlesnake  following  him  along  through 
the  dust,  just  like  a  dog.  That  sure  reached  Doc's 
heart.  He  got  right  out  his  buggy,  picked  up  the 
snake  and  took  him  home,  and  on  account  of  the 
Scotch  markings  on  his  back  named  him  Mc- 
Gregor. 

"It  was  a  rather  fortunate  thing  that  Doc's 
wife  and  children  were  up  in  the  mountains — 
you  know  how  fussy  some  women  are  about 
snakes.  The  Chinaman,  though,  who  was  taking 
care  of  the  house,  rather  liked  reptiles  and  sich, 
and  got  him  an  eight-foot  section  of  three-inch 
pipe  for  him  to  sleep  in,  only  it  was  about  two 
foot  short  at  one  end." 

A  look  of  suspicion  that  had  been  growing  on 
one  of  Uncle  Noah's  listeners,  a  tenderfoot  from 
New  York,  intensified.  "Pardon  me,  Uncle,"  he 
interrupted  firmly,  "do  I  understand  you  to  say 
that  this  snake  was  ten  foot  long?  I  have  al- 
ways understood — " 

"So  have  I,  my  friend,"  replied  the  old  man 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          47 

frankly.  "As  man  to  man,  it's  a  mighty  excep- 
tional rattler  that's  over  seven  feet  long.  It  must 
have  been  the  result  of  kindness  that  influenced 
even  his  growth.  I  tell  you  that  snake  appre- 
ciated all  that  Doc  done  for  him,  too,  and  tried 
his  best  to  pay  it  back.  The  first  week  he  cleaned 
out  every  mouse  there  was  in  the  house;  the  sec- 
ond he  learned  to  retrieve  collar  buttons  from 
under  the  bureau ;  and  by  the  third — well,  if  you 
didn't  know  em  so  well  you'd  hardly  believe  it — 
he  started  slipping  out  on  the  desert  and  killing 
cottontails  and  bringing  them  back  for  Doc  to 
eat." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say — "  interrupted  the 
Tenderfoot  again  in  some  irritation. 

"Of  course  not,"  replied  the  old  man  sooth- 
ingly, "the  Doc  didn't  eat  them.  They  might 
have  had  pizen  in  them  that  the  snake  dropped 
accidental  like,  so  he  gave  them  all  away  to  his 
friends" 

"Oh!"  said  the  Tenderfoot. 

"But  it  was  in  September,"  went  on  Uncle 
Noah  blandly,  "that  the  snake  taught  Doc  what 
gratitude  really  was.  It  was  the  night  the  folks 
came  in  on  the  Prescott  stage.  In  the  excitement 
of  getting  them  all  home  again  the  Doc  plumb 
forgot  about  the  snake.  He  didn't  think  a  thing 
about  it  until  he  woke  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  and  wondered  what  would  happen  if  one 


48          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

of  the  kids  would  get  up  for  a  drink  and  find  the 
snake  taking  a  swim  in  the  bath  tub.  McGregor 
-sure  loved  to  do  that. 

"Just  as  he  was  thinking  about  it,  he  heard  a 
yell  and  then  a  most  terrible  crash  upstairs,  right 
over  his  head.  It  made  his  heart  almost  stop 
beating.  Up  he  ran  in  those  pink  pajamas  he 
used  to  wear  and  a-carrying  an  old  army  sword 
that  hung  over  his  bed.  But  he  didn't  need  it.  By 
the  time  he  got  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  the  racket 
stopped,  and  there  was  the  most  awful  moaning 
you  ever  heered  a  comin'  from  a  corner  in  the 
front  room  near  the  winder.  There  was  a  kind 
of  a  buzzing  sound,  too,  that  didn't  listen  a  bit 
good.  Well,  he  lit  a  match  and — what  do  you 
suppose  he  seed?" 

We  shook  our  unanimous  heads. 

"There  was  a  burglar,  lying  flat  on  the  floor, 
and  on  his  manly  bosom  was  about  five  feet  of 
coiled  rattlesnake,  with  McGregor's  head  weav- 
ing back  and  forth  about  six  inches  from  the 
feller's  nose!  The  rest  of  McGregor — the  tail 
end — was  a-hanging  out  the  winder — " 

"To  tie  a  Carnegie  medal  on?"  asked  the  Ten- 
derfoot in  mild  sarcasm. 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Dad  simply,  "nothing  like 
that.  He  was  rattling  for  the  sheriff!" 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          49 


THE  LADY  AND  THE  LARIAT 

Pepita's  mother  was  Margarita  Lenora  Felicia 
Manuela  Lucia  Portales  y  La  Reux,  which  was  a 
good  deal  of  a  name  to  wear  in  a  twelve-by- 
sixteen  adobe,  even  though  said  adobe  be  kalso- 
mined  a  shrimp  pink  on  the  inside  and  be  flanked 
by  a  porte  cochere  of  cottonwood  boughs. 

The  La  Reux  descended  from  Pepita's  paternal 
grandfather,  Francois  Victoire  La  Reux,  a  gal- 
lant, red-trousered  zouave  who  drifted  from  Al- 
geria to  Mexico  in  Maximilian's  time,  and  who 
tarried  long  enough  to  become  an  ancestor. 

Pepita's  father,  son  of  the  dashing  Francois, 
was  a  degenerate,  with  a  handsome  face  and 
promiscuous  habits.  Much  to  his  wife's  relief,  he 
drank  himself  to  death  the  third  year  of  their 
marriage. 

As  for  Pepita  herself — Pepita's  eyes  were  as 
black  as  sloes;  Pepita's  cheek  was  as  smooth  and 
soft  as  a  violet's  petal;  Pepita's  lips  were  like 
unto  pomegranate  blossoms  —  Pepita's  heart? 
That  is  more  difficult  to  describe. 

There  were  those  who  lived  in  Pepita's  princi- 
pality, which  extended  from  the  Upper  Verde  to 
Gila  Bend,  who  had  been  known  to  say  that 
Pepita's  heart  was  entirely  an  imaginary  quan- 


50          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

tity — a  cipher,  indeed — surrounded  only  by  a 
vacuum.  The  authors  of  these  heresies,  however, 
were,  for  the  most  part,  mothers  of  other  Pepitaa 
— Doroteas  and  Raquels — and,  of  course,  under 
the  circumstances,  were  only  exercising  their  in- 
alienable maternal  rights. 

Certainly,  no  such  lese-majesty  had  ever  passed 
the  lips  of  either  Jim  Sibley,  who  ran  sheep  on 
the  Mogollons,  or  Lem  Dressier  of  the  Gridiron 
ranch. 

Sibley  was  an  old  admirer,  who  had  formed 
Pepita's  acquaintance  at  the  Otero  baile  some 
time  in  the  dim  antiquity  of  the  previous  year, 
and  had  remained  constant  through  twelve  long 
sheep-blatted  months. 

It  had  been  but  thirty  days  since  Dressier  had 
first  visited  the  La  Reux  jacal.  He  had  stopped 
to  inquire  concerning  a  missing  two-year-old, 
and  had  been  smitten  into  dumb  worship  at  the 
sight  of  the  Senora  La  Reux's  bewilderingly 
charming  seventeen-year-old. 

The  age,  you  see,  is  given  baldly;  seventeen, 
and  still  unmarried.  But  in  Spanish  Arizona, 
even  that  extreme  age  is  better,  with  wit  and 
aplomb,  than  the  usual  budding  debutanteism  of 
fourteen  without  Pepita's  charm. 

It  must  not  be  inferred  from  their  prominent 
mention  that  Sibley  and  Dressier  were  the  only 
members  of  Pepita's  corps  of  admirers.  On  the 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          51 

contrary,  the  society  of  perpetual  admiration  of 
Pepita  numbered — including  honorary  and  dis- 
honorary  members — almost  every  gentleman  of 
prominence  in  the  valley. 

Indeed,  the  young  lady  was  a  sort  of  Burke's 
Peerage.  A  name  inscribed  on  Pepita's  calling- 
list  established  beyond  cavil  one's  social  position. 

Sibley's  special  bid  for  distinction  was  the  fact 
that  he  was  Pepita's  only  sample  of  predatory 
wealth,  his  tainted  money  being  represented  by 
a  sixth  interest  in  a  band  of  three  thousand 
sheep. 

On  the  other  hand,  Dressler's  being  a  cowboy, 
entitled  him  to  a  social  position  that  a  sheepman 
could  never  hope  to  attain;  but,  like  many  an- 
other proud  member  of  an  exclusive  aristocracy, 
financially,  he  was  a  rope  of  sand,  wasting  his 
patrimony  and  procrastinating  his  matrimony  at 
the  palace  crap-game  with  monthly  regularity. 

A  second  advantage  that  accrued  to  Sibley's 
credit  was  propinquity.  Following  his  usual  cus- 
tom, with  the  coming  of  cool  weather  he  had 
driven  his  sheep  down  from  the  Mogollons  to 
browse  on  the  winter's  growth  along  the  river, 
almost  in  Pepita's  back  yard. 

For  Dressier,  it  was  all  of  forty  miles,  as  his 
sorrel  cow-horse  traveled,  from  the  Gridiron 
chuck-wagon  to  the  hacienda  La  Reux. 


62          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

II. 

This  explains  why  on  Sunday  morning,  as 
early  as  breakfast-time,  the  sheepman  was  indus- 
triously taking  advantage  of  the  sunshine  to 
make  his  hay.  Outstretched  on  the  clean-swept 
ground  he  lay,  his  face  in  the  shade  of  the  cot- 
tonwood  porte  cochere  and  his  one  hundred  and 
ninety  pounds  of  flabby  muscle  in  the  sun,  mak- 
ing love  to  his  lady  after  the  manner  of  his  kind. 

"I  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  if  that 
girl  down  in  Tucson  don't  quit  pestering  me  with 
her  letters,"  he  began  modestly.  "Now,  what  do 
you  suppose  all  these  girls  see  in  a  man  like  me, 
Pepita.?" 

"I  dunno.  Why  don'  you  marry  that  Tucson 
girl,  Meester  Sibley?" 

It  is  impossible  to  indicate  the  delicate  ennui 
and  the  lack  of  interest  the  girl  managed  to  in- 
clude in  her  question. 

"Because  I'm  going  to  marry  you." 

"Ees  it  possible?  Many  other  men  say  like 
that,  too?" 

"Then  why  don't  you  marry  them?"  This  was 
rare  repartee  for  Sibley. 

"Maybe  I  will,"  said  the  girl ;  "but  only  one  of 
them.  That  ees  a  plenty.  And  he  mus'  have  lots 
of  money." 

"What's  the  matter  with  me  having  lots  of 
money,  Pepita?  You  say  the  word,  and  you'll 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          53 

have  more  silk  dresses  than  you  can  stick  in  a 
trunk." 

Before  she  could  answer,  there  was  borne  upon 
their  ears  a  strident  tenor,  accompanied  by  the 
steady  jog  of  a  cow-pony: 

I  thought  one  winter,  just  for  fun — 
After  cow-punching  all  was  done — 
Pd  rest  my  bronc'  and  rest  my  gun 
And  hunt  me  up  a  girl. 
I'd  take  her  in  to  all  the  shows; 
I'd  corral  her  everything  that  goes; 
I'd  cut  out  all  the  other — 

"That  mus*  be  Meester  Dressier,"  said  Pepita 
softly.  "You  know  Meester  Dressier?  He's  very 
old  friend  of  mine.  He's  a  very  fine  caballero." 

Sibley  bristled  like  a  fat  house-dog  when  the 
keen  call  of  a  hill-wolf  smites  his  ear;  which  was 
right  and  proper,  he  being  a  sheep  man  and 
Dressler's  line  being  cows. 

The  horseman's  smile,  however,  included  them 
all,  even  the  portly  Senora  La  Reux,  who  was 
spatting  tortillas  by  the  bake-oven  in  the  back 
yard.  "Como  esta  V.  Senora?  Howdy,  Jim? 
Here  again — or  yet?  Gee,  Peetie,  it  seems  good 
to  see  you.  Honest,  it's  been  so  long  I  was  afraid 
I  wouldn't  know  the  place." 

Pepita  flashed  him  a  fascinating  smile.  "Yes," 
she  assented,  "it  hass  been  the  mos'  lonesomles* 
week  off  my  life — except" — and  now  the  sheep- 
man got  the  glance — "when  Meester  Seebley 


54          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

would  come  to  drive  the  lonesomeles'  away." 

"You  bet!  That's  my  long  suit,"  asserted  the 
sheepman  defiantly.  He  wasn't  to  be  bluffed  out 
by  a  new  pair  of  chaparejos  and  a  red  silk  hand- 
kerchief, not  while  he  weighed  one  hundred  and 
ninety  pounds,  and  still  had  his  sixth  interest  in 
the  sheep. 

"Wass  that  a  new  song  you  were  singing?"  be- 
gan Pepita. 

"Bah!  That's  Lon  Woody's  old  song,"  put  in 
the  sheepman.  "I  heard  that  song  years  ago." 

"You  blat  just  like  your  muttons,  don't  you, 
Jim?"  returned  Lem  genially.  "Now,  you  sing 
us  a  nice  song.  Peetie,  bring  the  young  man  a 
guitar." 

"You  mussin'  begin  so  much  quarrelsomeness," 
began  Pepita  softly,  her  nostrils  quivering  pleas- 
urably  at  the  belligerent  attitude  of  her  admirers. 
"We  will  smoke  a  pipe  of  peace — yes?"  Mysteri- 
ously she  produced  the  "makings"  and  deftly 
rolled  a  cigarette.  "The  firs'  ees  for  Meester 
Dressier,  because  he  came  las';  the  nex'  ees  for 
Meester  Sibley ;  the  las'  ees  for  me.  Now,  Meester 
Dressier  can  give  me  a  light." 

She  stood  so  close  to  the  cowboy  that  her  hair 
touched  his  cheek,  and  as  she  tilted  her  face  to 
raise  her  cigarette  to  his,  her  eyelids  drooped  a 
little,  and  the  look  she  gave  him  from  beneath 
the  long  black  lashes  meant — anything  you 
choose. 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          55 

It  was  playing  with  fire,  with  the  big  sheep- 
man at  her  back,  but  it  was  a  game  Pepita  had 
played  before,  and  she  evidently  liked  it. 

Her  cigarette  at  last  was  lighted,  and  she 
turned  to  Sibley,  who  was  also  standing. 

"Oh,  so  big  a  man!  Why  don*  you  sit  down 
and  res'  yourself?  So  strong  a  man!"  She  put 
her  slim  fingers  around  his  big  biceps  and  pressed 
them  softly.  "See,  Meester  Dressier,  ees  he  not 
so  big  a  man?  Now,  we  mus'  sit  down,  and  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  the  circus.  It  comes  to 
Phoenix  in  three  weeks.  A  very  good  circus.  I 
see  the  pictures." 

"Sure!  I  saw  them,  too,"  said  the  cowboy 
promptly;  "at  Granite  Reef,  on  my  way  down. 
We'll  see  it  together,  Peetie.  I  was  just  going  to 
break  the  news  to  you." 

"Twenty  minutes  late,"  interrupted  the  sheep- 
man gruffly.  "She's  going  with  me." 

"How  about  that,  little  girl?"  asked  Dressier. 

Pepita  looked  doubtful.  There  was  no  question 
but  what  the  good-looking  cowboy  cut  much  the 
more  dashing  figure,  still,  wool  was  going  up.  "I 
theenk  it  would  be  very  nice  to  go  with  both  of 
you." 

"No  family  circle  for  me,"  said  Dressier  de- 
cidedly. "Let's  leave  the  children  at  home,  Peetie, 
and  have  a  good  time." 

"Mighty  big  talk  for  a  mighty  little  man,"  put 
in  the  sheep-herder  belligerently.  "And,  while 


56          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

I'm  talking  about  it,  I'm  growing  particular  about 
the  landscape  around  here.  That  red  rag  of  yours 
spoils  it  for  me.  If  you  get  a  little  gayer  I'll  ask 
you  to  take  it  home.  You're  not  very  popular 
around  here,  anyway." 

III. 

The  cowboy  turned  his  back  on  his  antagonist. 
"Peetie,"  he  said  to  the  girl,  "you  see  how  it  is. 
The  atmosphere  is  getting  kind  of  crowded. 
Don't  seem  to  be  room  for  us  all.  You  heard  the 
fat  boy's  little  bluff.  I  think  I'll  call  him.  It's 
up  to  you  to  tell  us  what  we've  got. 

"If  you  want  to  execute  matrimony  with  a 
band  of  sheep,  that's  your  business,  and  lets  me 
out ;  but  if  you  should  happen  to  prefer  cows,  it'd 
please  me  most  to  death.  The  boss  says  my  cow- 
punching's  going  to  be  worth  sixty  a  month  after 
this.  Next  spring  he's  going  to  plant  me  on  an 
alfalfa  patch.  There'll  be  a  house  and  money- 
enough  for  frijoles  and  circuses,  too.  How  about 
it?" 

"Don't  forget  what  I  told  you,  Pepita,"  warned 
the  big  sheep-herder  earnestly.  "There'll  be  four 
thousand  more  lamb>s  in  the  spring." 

Pepita  looked  disturbed.  She  had  evidently 
been  enjoying  matters  very  well  as  they  stood. 
Still,  she  was  seventeen.  "It  ees  so  hard  to 
Imow." 

"I  think  we  could  talk  it  over  better,"  said 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          57 

Sibley  truculently,  "if  there  weren't  so  many 
around.  You  crook  your  finger  and  I'll  take  the 
little  man  down  and  throw  him  in  the  river.  Then 
there  wouldn't  be  so  many  left  to  choose  from." 

Dressier  whirled  upon  his  rival  like  a  cat.  "I'll 
fight  you  with  fists,  rifles  or  six-shooters,  you 
big  four-flusher/' 

"Oh,  mus'  you  fight?"  asked  the  girl,  with  de- 
mure lips  and  dancing  eyes.  "An*  you  will  fight, 
too,  I  suppose,  Meester  Sibley?  You  are  so  beeg 
and  strong."  She  gave  him  the  full  battery  of 
her  trouble-making  eyes. 

"It's  up  to  you,  Peetie.  What  do  you  say?"  de- 
manded the  cowboy.  "I'll  be  good  to  you,  little 
girl,  if  you  give  me  the  chance." 

"Oh,  I  like  you  both  too  much,"  said  Pepita. 
"Only  you  mus'  not  fight." 

"Peetie,"  said  Dressier  bluntly,  "I  am  begin- 
ning to  believe  that  you  would  as  soon  see  us 
scrap  as  not." 

"No,  no,  no!"  lied  the  girl.  "But  you  are  so 
quarrelsomeness;  like  two  men  down  in  Chihua- 
hua who  lofe  a  girl.  They  fight  on  horseback. 
They  ride  fast  at  each  other.  The  guns  ga 
'Bang!  Bang!'  like  that.  Mos'  excitement."  She 
drooped  her  lashes,  and  looked  demurely  at  the 
floor.  "But  it  wass  very  wicked  to  make  fight 
like  that." 

"I'll  play  you  seven-up  for  it,"  suggested  Sib- 


58          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

ley.   "Got  the  cards  right  here  in  my  pocket/' 

Dressier  looked  at  the  sheepman  in  amaze- 
ment. "What  a  ladylike  arrangement,"  he 
drawled.  "What  do  you  say  to  that,  Pepita?" 

"Ver*  well,"  agreed  the  girl  reluctantly.  "If 
you  theenk  it  would  be  wrong  to  fight,  maybe 
that  would  be  a  good  way." 

"And  you  will  marry  the  one  who  wins?" 

"Si.    Will  you  play,  Meester  Dressier?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  Seven-up  is  a 
little  too  much  like  sheep-herding  for  me.  I'll  cut 
for  the  lady,  Jim.  Ace  is  high.  Ace  of  hearts, 
top  of  the  pile.  Is  it  a  go  ?" 

Sibley  swallowed  hard,  nodded,  and  threw  the 
pack  of  cards  on  the  table. 

"Shuffle  them,  Peetie,"  said  Dressier. 

The  girl  did  so. 

"Who  cuts  first?"  asked  the  sheepherder. 

Pepita  looked  at  Dressier  and  smiled. 

The  cowboy  turned  over  the  top  card.  It  was 
the  ace  of  diamonds. 

Sibley  went  white,  and  with  the  returning  wave 
of  color  shook  his  fist  in  his  rival's  face.  "I  be- 
lieve you  knew  just  what  that  card  was,  you  mis- 
erable shrimp." 

"Play  the  game,"  said  Dressier  sternly,  "or  get 
out.  You  forget  that  Pepita  shuffled  the  cards." 

"I  don't  forget  that  you  watched  her,"  re- 
torted Sibley,  "but  I'll  show  you  a  trick  worth 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          59 

two  of  yours.  Ace  of  hearts  is  high,  is  it?  Well, 
you  watch  me  cut  it."  He  drew  from  his  belt  a 
six-inch  sheath-knife  and  with  the  full  force  of 
his  arm  drove  the  blade  down  through  the  pack 
of  cards  until  the  point  reached  the  table.  "I 
guess  that  cuts  the  ace,  doesn't  it?  When  I  want 
a  thing,  I  usually  get  it,  and  if  you  want  any- 
thing more,  Mr.  Cowboy,  I'll  give  it  to  you  right 
now." 

He  looked  as  big  as  a  grizzly  bear  as  he 
leaned,  roaring,  across  the  table. 

The  strife  in  the  air  was  as  wine  to  Pepita, 
and  she  smiled  frank  encouragement  at  the  big 
combatant.  At  the  glance,  the  sheepman  swelled 
with  the  spirit  of  battle. 

Dressier  caught  the  full  significance  of  the 
look  and  its  effect.  Indolently  he  stepped  toward 
the  table,  then,  with  incredible  swiftness  slapped 
Sibley  first  with  his  right  palm  and  then  with  his 
left  across  the  face. 

"Ah,  you  will  fight  for  me!"  whispered  Pepita 
softly  to  the  cowboy. 

While  she  was  still  speaking  the  sheepherder 
stripped  the  cards  from  his  knifeblade,  and 
slashed  frantically  across  the  table. 

Dressier  jumped  lightly  aside,  and  laughed 
scornfully.  Instinctively  he  felt  for  his  revolver, 
but,  alas!  that  familiar  weapon  lay  carefully 
rolled  in  his  bedding  in  the  Gridiron  bunk-house. 


60          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

IV. 

Sibley,  too  crazy  with  rage  to  go  round  the 
table,  crashed  it  down  like  an  angry  bull.  Dress- 
ier whirled  in  his  tracks,  ran  diagonally  through 
the  court  shaded  by  the  cottonwood  boughs,  and 
almost  fell  over  the  Senora  La  Reux  as  she 
steamed  around  the  corner  of  the  house. 

By  the  time  the  cowboy  had  regained  his  bal- 
ance Sibley  was  on  him.  Again  the  knife  swooped 
through  the  air,  and  Dressier  felt  its  sharp  sting 
as  its  point  pricked  his  skin. 

Swiftly  he  ran  across  the  clearing  to  his  horse, 
and  placing  his  hand  on  the  saddle-horn,  vaulted 
clear  over  the  animal.  The  second  thus  gained, 
he  used  to  untie  his  lariat,  and  was  clear  of  the 
horse  again  before  Sibley  could  reach  him. 

Now  he  ran  back  to  the  cleared  level  space  in 
front  of  the  house.  The  sheepherder  came  rush- 
ing toward  him  like  a  whirlwind.  Coolly  the 
cowboy  swung  the  coiled  rope  around  his  head, 
and  then  launched  the  noose.  The  rope  whistled 
through  the  air  like  a  rifle  bullet,  and  the  loop, 
four  feet  across,  dropped  over  Sibley's  shoulders. 

Quick  as  a  flash  of  light,  Lem  Dressier  pulled 
the  rope  taut  and  gave  it  a  cowboy's  jerk.  The 
sheep-herder  fell  to  the  ground  like  a  roped  steer. 
A  moment  later,  however,  he  was  on  his  feet 
again,  but  quick  as  he  was,  he  could  not  free  his 
arms  from  the  noose  or  reach  it  with  his  knife, 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          61 

though  his  forearm  tugged  against  the  rope  until 
the  skin  turned  purple. 

In  the  center  of  the  clearing  stood  a  snubbing- 
post,  about  five  feet  high,  used  in  the  subduing 
of  unruly  horses.  With  the  dexterity  of  a 
prestidigitator  the  boy  ran  to  it,  still  keeping 
tight  the  rope,  and  cast  a  half -hitch  over  its  top. 

The  sheep-herder,  seeing  that  his  only  chance 
of  escape  lay  in  speed,  ran  to  the  post  to  throw 
over  the  rope,  but  the  boy  was  too  quick  for  him. 
With  a  rapidity  that  made  the  wood  smoke,  the 
rope  whined  over  its  smooth  surface  and  Sibley 
was  jerked  up  against  the  cotton  wood  stake  with 
a  jolt  that  made  him  grunt  like  a  pig.  Then 
round  and  round  ran  the  cowboy,  the  rope  in  his 
hand  ever  as  taut  as  a  fiddle-string,  until,  from 
neck  to  ankles,  the  sheepherder  was  wrapped  as 
helpless,  in  the  uncompromising  sunlight,  as  a 
calf  waiting  the  branding-iron. 

Dressier  stopped  and  smiled  a  cheerful,  im- 
personal smile  at  the  world  in  general.  Then 
he  walked  up  to  the  frightened  sheepman  and, 
as  a  watchful  parent  might  remove  a  dangerous 
plaything  from  a  baby,  loosened  Sibley's  fin- 
gers from  the  knife-blade. 

Next,  he  addressed  him  in  a  few  virile,  pic- 
turesque sentences.  He  expatiated  on  the  vari- 
ous merits  of  the  sheep  and  cattle  business,  dis- 
cussing Sibley's  probable  ancestry,  made  a  few 


62          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

remarks  on  the  ethics  of  card-playing,  the  cour- 
tesy due  to  women,  and  a  few  more  on  errors 
in  judgment  in  the  selection  of  weapons. 

Tiring  of  this,  he  sat  down  in  front  of  the 
big  man  and  regarded  him  curiously. 

Suddenly  a  shadow  fell  upon  him  from  be- 
hind, and  an  instant  later  a  soft  cheek  pressed 
against  his  own.  It  belonged  to  the  fair  and 
guileless  Pepita. 

"Bneno!  Bueno!  hombre.  Muy  bonito!  Oh, 
so  quick  you  are!  So  quick!  like  the  gato  jumps. 
I  have  so  very  much  proud  that  I  am  to  be  your 
querida,  your — what  you  say — your  goodheart. 
Now,  what  you  do  with  the  beeg  man,  you  smart 
boy?" 

"Eh?"  said  Dressier.  "Oh,  yes;  we  were 
cutting  cards  to  see  which  of  us  was  going  to 
marry  you.  Gee;  I'd  almost  forgotten  about 
that.  Was  just  having  a  little  pipe-dream. 
Never  wake  a  man  up  until  it's  morning,  Peetie ; 
it's  bad  luck." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  heem?" 

"Him?"  grinned  the  boy.    "Oh,  I'll  fix  him." 

Slowly  he  walked  around  his  victim,  unwind- 
ing the  rope,  and  finally  threw  off  the  ropes. 
The  sheep-herder  stood  free. 

Painfully,  one  by  one,  Sibley  spread  apart 
his  stiffened  fingers,  and  slowly  and  awkward- 
ly raised  a  hand  to  his  face  to  wipe  away  the 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          63 

sweat  that  stood  in  great  beads  upon  his  fore- 
head. 

"I  was  just  joking  with  you;  you  know  that, 
Lem,"  ventured  the  herder.  It  was  the  first 
words  he  had  spoken.  Every  particle  of  fight 
was  out  of  the  big  man.  He  was  as  mild  as  a 
Sonora  dove. 

The  boy  laughed  in  pure  joy.  "Sure,"  he 
said,  "I  knew  it.  I  knew  you  were  joking. 
Anybody  could  see  that." 

"You  don't  hold  it  up  against  me,  do  you, 
Lem?  You  won't  try  to  get  even?"  There 
were  actually  tears  in  the  man's  eyes. 

Dressier  rubbed  the  soft  adolescent  bristles 
on  his  chin  thoughtfully.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I 
reckon  I'll  have  to  get  even  with  you.  You  were 
pretty  pizen,  you  know.  I  almost  hate  to  treat 
even  a  sheepman  so,  but  I  guess  you'll  have  to 
take  your  medicine." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Lem,"  mumbled  Sibley, 
"what  you  going  to  do  to  me?" 

"The  worst  ever,  Jim.  Give  you  Peetie,  here. 
Guess  that'll  hold  you  for  a  while.  Here's  your 
toad-sticker  for  a  wedding  present.  My,  but 
you'll  make  a  peachy  couple." 

He  dropped  the  weapon  at  Sibley's  feet,  grin- 
ned expansively  at  Pepita,  sauntered  over  to  his 
horse,  and  jumped  lightly  to  the  saddle.  A  mo- 
ment later  he  was  jogging  along  the  sage-brush 


64          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

trail,  his  song  filling  the  peaceful  morning  air 
with  buoyant  lightheartedness : 

Says   the  boss  to  the   cowboy: 
"You  never  can  tell; 
Sometimes  they  are  angels, 
Sometimes  they  raise — " 

The  rest  was  lost  in  the  clatter  of  the  horse's 
hoofs. 


THE  LADY  AND  THE  LARIAT 

Originally  appeared  in  "The  Cavalier,"  under  the  title, — 
"Dressier  Gets  Even."  Republished  by  permission. 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          65 


LITTLE  BILL'S  BANDIT 

This  story,  which  is  of  Arizona's  yesterday, 
properly  begins  with  the  shipping  tag  that  was 
sewed  to  Little  Bill's  coat.  "Bill  Nolan.  Going 
to  his  mother,  Nell  Nolan,  Maricopa  and  Phoe- 
nix Railroad  Grading  Camp,  via  Old  Maricopa 
Wells  and  Phoenix,"  which  directions  had  been 
sufficient  to  bring  the  big-eyed,  small  boy  of 
five  years  or  so  all  the  way  from  Los  Angeles 
to  Phoenix  without  mishap.  There  I  had  met 
him  at  the  stage  office  where  the  commissary 
wagon  was  waiting  to  take  us  out  to  camp. 

The  vehicle  thus  designated  was  a  three- 
seated  affair  with  the  two  rear  seats  facing 
each  other  and,  as  we  started  out  little  Bill  and 
myself,  who  occupied  the  middle  seat,  had  per- 
sonages of  no  less  distinction  facing  us  than  the 
governor  of  the  Territory  and  the  sheriff  of  the 
county. 

The  conversation  of  these  gentlemen  was  of 
enthralling  interest  to  little  Bill,  concerning  it- 
self as  it  did  with  two  hold-ups  that  had  taken 
place  in  our  section  within  the  space  of  ten 
days. 

The  first  robbery  was  that  of  the  Wick- 
enburg-Phoenix  stage,  which  had  been  com- 


66          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

mi  tied  by  a  solitary  masked  man  just  north  of 
the  Agua  Fria;  in  the  second  it  was  the  stage 
from  Maricopa  that  had  been  held  up — also  by 
an  unaccompanied  man  wearing  a  mask.  This 
gentleman  of  the  road,  just  after  sunset  only 
two  nights  before,  had  stepped  out  from  behind 
a  bunch  of  arrowweed  as  the  stage  was  cross- 
ing the  Gila  bottom,  and,  after  he  had  stopped 
the  horses,  had  lined  up  the  passengers  at  the 
point  of  his  gun. 

There  were  two  things  that  added  interest 
to  this  second  crime,  one  being  that  the  gover- 
nor himself  was  one  of  the  victims,  the  other, 
that  after  filling  his  hat  with  valuables  be- 
longing to  the  various  people,  the  bandit  had 
counted  out  four  twenty  dollar  gold  pieces  and 
two  ten  dollar  bills  which  he  thrust  into  his 
pocket,  and  then  had  tossed  the  rest  of  the  col- 
lection— and  there  was  quite  a  lot  of  it — into 
the  open  door  of  the  stage,  remarking  airily  that 
what  he  had  taken  would  do  him  over  Christmas 
and  that  the  passengers  could  keep  the  change. 

As  soon  as  the  news  of  this  second  affair 
reached  Phoenix  the  sheriff  had  immediately 
sent  out  a  couple  of  deputies  to  the  scene  of 
the  crime,  but  as  they  had  been  unable  to  find 
either  trail  or  substantial  clue,  the  chief  was 
now  on  his  way  to  the  grading  camp,  which 
was  only  a  few  miles  from  the  scene  of  the  rob- 
bery, to  do  some  personal  investigating. 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          67 

So  far,  the  only  evidence  that  might  later  re- 
veal the  robber's  identity  had  been  given  by  the 
governor,  who  said  that  the  bandit  had  a  scar, 
that  looked  like  a  pencil  mark,  across  the  right 
wrist. 

Now  the  governor  was  traveling  to  Maricopa 
Junction  to  catch  a  train  for  Tucson,  where  hp 
was  to  be  toastmaster  at  a  Christmas  banquet 
the  following  night  and,  as  we  journeyed,  en- 
livened the  tedium  of  our  trip  by  telling  with 
quiet  humor  how  the  bandit  had  first  taken 
a  hundred  and  eighty  dollars  from  him,  and 
then  when  he  had  returned  all  but  twenty,  a 
peroxided  lady  in  apricot  pink  had  insisted  that 
the  hundred  and  sixty  was  hers. 

Pertinent,  one  might  almost  say,  impertinent 
remarks  made  by  the  sheriff  concerning  a 
hypothetical  conversation  between  the  gover- 
nor and  the  peroxided  lady  were  interruted  by 
the  small  boy  asking  what  a  scar  was.  The 
governor,  only  too  glad  to  thus  stop  the 
sheriff's  jibes,  explained  at  length. 

Little  Bill  then  said  that  if  the  bandit  held  up 
their  wagon  he  hoped  he  wouldn't  take  his  heart, 
and  the  sheriff  replied  that  it  was  only  ladies 
in  apricot  pink  who  took  liberties  with  such  in* 
timate  belongings.  This  naturally,  was  quit** 
beyond  little  Bill  who  now  confidentially 
showed  the  governor  the  object  he  had  in  mind,. 


68          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

a  wonderful  work  of  art  made  of  candy  and 
wrapped  in  the  corner  of  a  newspaper,  which 
he  had  been  carrying  in  his  small,  moist  palm. 

When  I  was  a  boy  there  used  to  be  many 
such  hearts  as  Bill  revealed  to  the  governor 
that  afternoon,  but  some  way  hearts  nowadays 
seem  to  be  less  magnificent,  and  in  candy,  es- 
pecially, much  more  commonplace.  This  one 
was  pink,  all  of  three  inches  in  length,  with 
rococo  embossing  in  white,  and  in  a  little  place 
in  the  center,  surrounded  by  forget-me-nots,  a 
motto  shone  on  silver  paper — "Love  the  Giver." 

The  governor  said  that  even  a  lady  in  apricot 
pink  would  not  hurt  a  heart  like  that,  and  the 
little  boy  was  reassured. 

However,  our  journey  was  not  interfered 
with  by  covetous  or  predatory  members  of 
either  sex,  and  as  we  pulled  through  the  Gila 
River  bottom  a  bright  star  broke  through  the 
clouds  that  had  hung  heavy  in  the  sky  all  day. 

"The  Star  in  the  East!"  said  the  governor 
sententiously.  Little  Bill  understood  the  allu- 
sion. They  both  lived  in  that  land  of  sentiment 
and  imagination  where  poets,  politicians  and 
real  estate  agents  are  all  influential  citizens. 

"Sure  it  is,"  said  Little  Bill,  "and  you  and 
him,"  indicating  the  sheriff,  "are  Wise  Men." 
He  eyed  me  doubtfully.  "You  might  do,  too, 
if  you  weren't  so  young."  Then  with  confi- 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          69 

dence:  "Mother's  the  Virgin  Mary,  of  course, 
and  I'm  the  Christmas  baby,  because  its's  my 
birthday." 

The  governor  looked  at  the  sheriff  signifi- 
cantly. "The  Wise  Men  brought  frankincense 
and  myrrh." 

"Good  Lord,"  returned  that  official,  "and  all 
I  have  is  a  plug  of  Climax,  a  warrant  for  a 
stage  robber  and  a  pair  of  handcuffs." 

"Peace  on  earth!"  supplemented  the  gover- 
nor grimly.  "My  pockets  contain  a  stylo- 
graphic  pen  and  a  six-page  speech.  Bill,  it  is 
with  humiliation  I  confess  it,  we  have  neither 
wisdom  nor  its  accessories." 

Bill  looked  at  me  for  a  translation,  and  I  was 
glad  to  explain  that  what  the  governor  meant 
was  that  there  was  a  box  under  the  seat  which 
the  three  of  us  were  going  to  give  him  for  his 
Christmas,  and  it  was  full  of  candy,  nuts  and 
oranges.  In  that  moment  I  had  made  three 
people  my  friends  for  life. 

"You  are  a  Wise  Man,"  after  all,"  said 
little  Bill  with  conviction.  "Mother'll  be  awful 
glad  to  see  us."  Then  as  an  afterthought:  "I 
hope  it's  peppermint." 

I  told  him  it  was  peppermint,  chocolate  and 
"assorted." 

The  sheriff  had  only  one  bad  habit — an  in- 
corrigible itch  for  "prying."  "It's  too  bad  your 


70          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

father  couldn't  have  come,  too,"  he  said  sug- 
gestively. 

"Oh,  I  never  had  a  daddy,"  replied  Bill  with 
a  blithe  chirrup.  "Mother's  so  smart  she  said 
we  never  really  needed  one." 

A  vision  of  the  deep-lined  face  and  tired  eyes 
of  Mrs.  or  Miss  Nolan — she  answered  to  either 
prefix — came  before  me.  "Have  you  and  your 
mother  lived  much  together?"  I  asked,  and 
then  blushed  to  realize  that  I  was  as  prying  as 
the  sheriff. 

"Oh,  I  live  with  Aunt  Josy,"  said  little  Bill, 
"only  she  ain't  any  real  relation."  He  sighed. 
"She  says  I  eat  a  nawf ul  lot  for  what  she  gets 
out  of  it." 

"Bill,  your  mother  will  give  you  two  kinds  of 
pie  for  Christmas,"  I  said  with  rash  conviction, 
"apple  and  mince — and  that's  tomorrow — big 
pieces,  too." 

I  was  a  false  prophet.  When  we  reached 
camp,  Morton,  the  foreman,  met  us  with  the  in- 
formation that  Sorrel  Nell,  as  the  boys  called 
her,  was  dead — dead  and  buried. 

We  stood  there  looking  at  the  man,  stunned 
and  appalled.  "Yep,"  he  went  on  with  the 
cheerful  importance  that  sometimes  attaches  it- 
self to  the  bearer  of  ill  tidings — "appendiceetis ! 
Died  as  soon  as  the  doc  clapped  his  eyes  on 
her.  He'd  come  out  to  see  the  feller  that  drop- 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          71 

ped  off  the  bridge  Sunday.  Killed  two  birds 
with  one  stone,  so  to  speak." 

It  was  the  shock,  more  than  the  conscious- 
ness of  loss  that  made  little  Bill  cry ;  but  it  was 
neither  I  nor  the  governor  nor  the  sheriff,  but 
the  new  cook  who  took  him  out  of  his  grief. 

The  new  cook  was  quite  a  wonderful  person. 
The  men  had  dubbed  him  "Frenchy"  at  once, 
from  his  waxed  mustache.  They  were  pro]?- 
ably  right  about  it  at  that.  Certainly  his  effer- 
vescent bouyancy,  amazing  vitality  and  good 
spirits  suggested  gallic  antecedents,  and  with  it 
he  had  a  sympathy  and  kindliness  like  a 
woman's. 

As  soon  as  he  learned  who  little  Bill  was,  he 
took  him  under  his  wing  with  the  same  awk- 
ward tenderness  displayed  by  an  old  turkey 
gobbler  I  once  owned  in  adopting  a  brood  of 
motherless  chicks. 

He  showed  Bill  his  watch  and  the  tattoing  on 
his  arm — a  wonderful  fish  on  a  hook  from 
which  a  line  ran  down  and  tied  to  his  little  fin- 
ger, and  sang  him  a  song  about  a  fox  that  loved 
a  chicken.  So  it  was  that  little  Bill  ate  his 
supper  from  Frenchy's  lap — and  a  good  supper, 
too — said  his  prayers  at  Frenchy's  knee, 
gave  him  the  precious  candy  heart,  and  was 
carried  in  the  cook's  arms  to  his  cot  in  my  quar- 
ters, where  he  was  to  sleep.  Afterwards 


72          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

Frenchy  hung  about  for  a  half  hour  pretending 
to  look  over  the  kitchen  supplies  I  had  brought 
out,  but  really  watching  little  Bill — lying  there 
with  cheek  on  palm — with  greedy  eyes. 

The  governor  retired  with  the  expectation  of 
leaving  by  daylight;  the  sheriff,  too,  had  ar- 
ranged for  an  early  departure,  but  the  gods  of 
storm  had  decreed  otherwise.  Shortly  before 
midnight  it  began  to  rain,  and  from  then  until 
morning  there  was  an  unremitting  downpour 
such  as  is  seldom  seen  in  the  Southwest.  It 
came  in  great  masses  of  water,  blowing  against 
the  sides  of  the  tent  until  it  seemed  as  though 
the  canvas  would  give  way. 

As  soon  as  it  was  light  enough  to  see,  I  got 
up  and  stuck  my  head  out  of  the  door.  The 
desert  was  a  sea  of  water  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  carry,  with  creosote  bushes,  if  the  meta- 
phor is  permissible,  standing  knee-deep  in  the 
wet,  and  shivering  with  cold. 

"Beautiful  day  for  trailing  criminals,  Jim!" 
I  heard  the  governor  call  to  the  sheriff. 

"Why  don't  you  worry  about  your  own  trou- 
bles?" came  the  rumbling  response.  "Bet  you 
fifty  to  one  that  the  S.  P.  is  washed  out  half  the 
way  to  Tucson." 

The  pessimistic  surmise  was  but  little  exag- 
gerated. After  breakfast  a  horseman,  envel- 
oped in  a  slicker,  came  floundering  in  with  the 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          73 

word  from  the  junction  that  all  trains  would  be 
tied  up  for  at  least  two  days. 

"We  might  make  the  leetle  keed  a  Christmas 
tree,"  said  Frenchy.  "The  wagon,  she  no  can 
get  back  to  Phoenix  today." 

The  suggestion  was  accepted  with  enthusi- 
asm. We  left  little  Bill  at  the  cook-tent,  with 
the  dishwasher,  while  the  governor,  the 
sheriff,  Frenchy  and  myself  repaired  to  the 
commissary,  which  was  my  headquarters. 

Protected  by  hip  boots,  Morton  had  already 
waded  out  and  cut  down  a  small  palo  verde. 
Now  we  made  a  pedestal  for  it  out  of  a  soap 
box,  after  which  the  governor  and  I  strung 
chilis  for  garlands,  the  sheriff  fastened  candles 
to  the  branches  and  Frenchy  cut  grinning  faces 
in  the  oranges  and  made  grotesque  little  ani- 
mals out  of  potatoes  with  sticks  for  legs. 

"But  we've  got  to  give  the  boy  a  real  pres- 
ent," said  the  governor  looking  speculatively, 
if  a  bit  foolishly,  at  his  hundred  dollar  gold 
watch. 

"I  know  jus'  the  thing  for  that  leetle  Beel," 
gaid  Frenchy.  "I  fix  heem  the  locomotive." 
And  he  did.  A  baking  powder  can  made  the 
boiler,  a  chocolate  can  the  cab,  while  some  of 
Sorrel  Kate's  spools  were  converted  into  wheels 
and  what  I  took  for  a  faucet  did  very  well  for 
a  smoke  stack. 


74          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

"Does  it  occur  to  you,  your  excellency,"  ob- 
served the  sheriff,  who  was  thoughtfully  look- 
ing at  his  thumb  which  he  had  accidentally 
whittled  instead  of  the  candle,  "that  our  small 
boy  has  no  place  to  go — no  folks,  and  it  is  up 
to  us  to  provide  for  him?" 

Frenchy  waved  his  hands  in  vigorous  protest. 
"No  saire,  you  gentlemens  don'  need  to  worry 
about  that.  I  take  Sorrel  Kate's  place  in  the 
cook  tent,  so  I  also  take  her  place  with  the 
small  boy." 

"But  a  railroad  camp  is  no  place  for  a  five- 
year  old  child,"  frowned  the  governor. 

"Surely,  no ;"  agreed  Frenchy.  "I  send  heem 
to  Sister's  school  in  Tucson.  I  like  that  leetle 
Beel." 

The  governor  gave  the  cook  an  approving 
look.  "By  George,  Frenchy,  you're  a  real  man/' 
A  smile  on  his  mobile  face  included  the  rest  of 
us.  "The  Three  Wise  Men  will  have  to  take 
the  matter  under  advisement." 

It  was  at  the  Christmas  dinner  that  noon  that 
our  short  hour  of  comedy  again  took  on  the 
grim  aspect  of  tragedy.  In  honor  of  the  occa- 
sion the  cook  had  rolled  down  his  sleeves  and 
wore  a  coat.  He  was  helping  little  Bill  to  his 
two  kinds  of  pie  when  the  boy  suddenly  cried 
out :  "Oh,  Mr.  Frenchy,  you  got  a  scar  on  your 
wrist,  too;  just  like  that  hold-up  man!" 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          75 

We  all  looked,  and  there,  just  below  the 
cook's  cuff,  like  a  penciled  line,  ran  the  cord 
from  the  wonderful  fish  down  across  the  wrist 
to  the  little  finger,  answering  only  too  perfect- 
ly the  governor's  description. 

Frenchy's  face  went  pasty  white  and  he  al- 
most dropped  the  plate  he  was  holding.  It  was 
a  ghastly  meal  after  that,  all  of  us  trying,  for 
the  sake  of  the  boy,  to  act  as  though  nothing; 
had  happened. 

When  the  dinner  was  over  and  the  men  we^re 
gone,  the  governor  and  the  sheriff,  Morton  and 
myself  again  took  seats  at  the  end  of  the  table 
where  we  could  thresh  the  matter  out  and  still 
keep  our  eyes  on  the  cook,  who  was  working 
about  the  range. 

In  response  to  the  sheriff's  question  as  to 
what  he  knew  about  Frenchy,  Morton  said  the 
man  had  wandered  into  camp  the  day  I  had 
gone  to  Phoenix  to  meet  Bill,  and  had  asked 
for  work.  He  said  he  had  been  a  cook  on  a 
sailing  vessel  but  could  do  most  anything.  As 
Sorrel  Nell  was  more  than  half  sick,  Morton 
had  put  the  man  at  work  helping  her.  That 
afternoon,  when  chancing  in  the  kitchen,  the 
foreman  saw  the  woman  sitting  on  a  bench 
crying,  with  Frenchy  beside  her,  patting  her 
shoulder  in  a  caressing  way,  evidently  try- 
ing to  console  her  about  something.  After- 


76          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

wards,  he  told  Morton  that  he  used  to  know  her 
in  San  Francisco,  and  she  was  crying  because 
she  was  sick  and  miserable.  From  then  on  he 
had  done  most  of  the  cooking  himself. 

"Hum,"  said  the  sheriff.  "Did  he  get  supper 
on  the  night  of  the  twenty-second?"  That,  of 
course,  might  easily  be  the  crux  of  the  matter. 
It  was  the  night  of  the  twenty-second  that  the 
stage  was  robbed. 

"Why,  no;"  said  Morton.  "The  saddle  horse 
that  belongs  to  Bob,"  (that  was  I)  "here,  had 
broken  away  that  morning  with  saddle  and 
bridle,  and  Frenchy  went  off  about  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon  to  see  if  he  could  find  him. 
He  came  back  with  him  about  ten  o'clock  that 
night.  Said  he  had  run  across  him  in  a  mes- 
quite  thicket  off  east  of  here." 

"Oh,  he  did,  did  he?"  commented  the  sheriff 
grimly.  "He  didn't  say  anything  about  riding 
him  to  the  Maricopa  crossing  on  the  Gila,  did 
he?  And  did  you  see  him  do  anything  suspi- 
cious after  he  came  back?" 

Morton  hesitated.  "Nothing,  I  guess,  till 
after  the  woman  was  dead.  She  died  the  next 
morning,  and  we  buried  her  that  afternoon.  An 
hour  afterwards  I  went  into  the  tent  where  she 
used  to  sleep  and  saw  him  going  through  her 
valise.  I  asked  him  what  he  was  doing.  First 
he  said,  'Nothing/  then  he  said  she  had  asked 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          17 

him  to  attend  to  some  business  for  her  and  he 
was  looking  for  a  paper.  He  had  an  envelope 
in  his  hand,  and  after  hesitating  a  bit  more, 
gave  it  to  me  saying  coolly  that  he  had  just 
come  across  it.  The  outside  of  the  envelope 
had  written  across  it,  'To  pay  for  operation.' 
On  the  inside  there  was  one  hundred  and 
twenty-three  dollars  and  a  few  odd  cents." 

So  far  the  governor  had  remained  a  silent 
auditor.  Now  he  said  thoughtfully:  "I  sup- 
pose you  took  charge  of  the  money.  If  you 
don't  mind,  I'd  like  to  see  it." 

Morton  went  out  and  upon  returning  handed 
the  governor  a  soiled  envelope  inscribed  as  he 
had  said. 

As  the  executive  poured  out  the  money  I  saw 
Frenchy,  still  at  the  range,  start  involuntarily, 
then  appear  very  busy  about  his  cooking.  From 
the  gold,  silver  and  greenbacks  before  him  the 
governor  picked  out  four  yellow  double  eagles 
and  then  two  ten  dollar  bills.  He  handed  one 
of  the  latter  to  the  sheriff.  "See  that  drop  of 
red?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  a  small  blot. 

"Blood?"  asked  the  sheriff,  aghast.  "My 
God,  Governor!  You  don't  think  he  killed  the 
woman?" 

The  governor  smiled.  "Only  red  ink.  The 
bill  was  mine  and  was  on  my  desk  the  day  be- 
fore the  robbery  occurred  and  I  accidentally 


78          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

made  that  blot  upon  it.  Frenchy  wasn't  trying" 
to  steal  the  money  from  the  woman.  He  gave 
it  to  her,  and,  of  course,  was  the  bandit  who 
took  it  away  from  me." 

The  sheriff  rose  and,  turning  towards  the 
kitchen,  called  to  the  cook  who  was  nervously 
stirring  away  at  a  pot.  "Frenchy!" 

The  man  came  to  us  with  twitching  lips. 

"What  did  you  do  it  for?"  demanded  the 
sheriff,  sternly. 

"To  make  pay  for  operation,"  replied 
Frenchy.  "The  doctor  in  Los  Angeles  tell  her 
maybe  the  desert  be  good  for  her.  If  that  not 
make  her  well,  then  must  have  operation  that 
cost  hundred  dollars.  She  tell  me  when  I  first 
come.  I  read  in  newspaper  how  easy  that 
other  feller  rob  stage,  so  I  try."  He  looked 
pleadingly  at  the  governor.  "You  know  I  only 
take  what  I  need  for  that.  I  give  the  other 
back.  I  did  not  rob  for  myself." 

"Still  you  committed  robbery,"  said  the 
sheriff,  inflexibly.  "Laws  are  not  made  for  a 
man  to  interpret  as  it  may  seem  to  suit  his  in- 
dividual case."  He  drew  a  legal  looking  docu- 
ment from  his  pocket.  "I  have  a  warrant  for 
the  arrest  of  John  Doe  for  holding  up  a  stage. 
I  guess  you'll  have  to  be  John  Doe.  And,  by 
the  way,  I  also  reckon  you'd  better  give  me  the 
gun  you  did  your  work  with.  You  might  be 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          79 

tempted  to  use  it  again." 

Frenchy  went  back  into  the  kitchen  and  re- 
turned with  little  Bill's  locomotive  in  his  hands. 
From  it  he  extracted  what  I  had  taken  to  be 
the  broken  faucet,  which  now  proved  to  be  an 
antiquated  pistol  minus  both  hammer  and  trig- 
ger, and  with  a  barrel  diametered  like  a  shot- 
gun. He  handed  it  to  the  sheriff.  "I  got  heem 
from  old  peddler  man  in  Hong  Kong  for  souve- 
nir. It  not  ver'  good  but  the  pepples  on  the 
stage — they  don'  miss  the  difference." 

The  governor,  taking  the  ancient  relic  from 
the  sheriff's  hand,  refused  to  be  discounten- 
anced by  the  others  broad  grins.  "I  thought," 
said  his  excellency,  slowly,  "that  the  barrel  was 
the  largest  I  had  ever  seen.  I  am  glad  to  know 
that  even  the  excitement  of  the  moment  did  not 
incite  me  to  exaggeration." 

As  the  sheriff  turned  back  to  Frenchy,  his 
severity  returned.  "Nevertheless  it  was  a  hold- 
up. I  suppose  you  are  prepared  to  take  the 
consequences?" 

The  cook  sank  back  to  the  bench  as  though 
he  had  suddenly  lost  his  strength.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "I  take  those  consequences,  honly  it  be 
too  bad  for  that  Leetle  Beel.  You  know  I  was 
goin'  to  take  care  of  heem." 

The  governor  rubbed  his  chin  awkwardly. 
"I — I  will  see  that  someone  looks  after  him." 


80          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

"No  one  can  do  heem  so  well  as  me,"  insisted 
the  cook. 

"Why?" 

Frenchy  gulped  hard.  Because,  monsieurs 
— because  I — I'm  hees  pa!" 

We  all  stared  blankly  at  Frenchy  for  a  full 
minute.  "You  mean  that  you  were  Nell  Nolan's 
husband?"  demanded  the  governor,  sternly. 

"Don'  you  theenk  bad  to  that  girl,"  said  the 
cook,  unsteadily.  "That  girl  and  me,  I  guess 
we  belong  to  different  kind  of  worlds  from 
you,  honly  we  not  all  the  bad.  We  were  going 
to  get  married;  I  swear  it  on  the  Book!" 

"Then  why  didn't  you?"  asked  the  governor, 
dryly.  "And  why  didn't  you  take  care  of  her 
afterwards?  How  long  has  it  been  since  the 
last  time  you  saw  her?" 

Frenchy  seemed  greatly  agitated.  "I  tell  the 
truth,"  he  said,  with  a  voice  choking  with 
emotion.  "I  did  not  see  her  since  my  boy  was 
born.  We  go  to  picnic;  I  get  a  little  drunk; 
nex'  day  at  sailor  boarding  house  I  drink  some 
more.  Some  Portugee  man  give  me  some  sweet, 
red  wine,  and  by  V  by,  I  wake  up  on  ship  go  to 
China.  It  be  one  whole  year  before  I  can  get 
home,  and  nobody  can  tell  me  where  Nelly 
Nolan,  she  have  gone.  Somebody  theenk  she 
go  to  Oregon.  I  go,  but  do  not  find  her.  I  go 
to  Sacramento,  to  Stockton,  back  to  San  Fran- 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          81 

cisco,  but  nevaire  find  her.  Then  I  mus'  stop 
and  earn  money.  After  that?  Gentlemens,  1 
tell  the  truth,  I  get  some  forgetfuls.  I  theenk 
maybe  she  marry  some  other  mans,  and  so  I  see 
some  other  girls.  Honly  listen,  two  weeks  ag'» 
I  see  Mexican  woman  in  Los  Angeles  who  kno  .v 
my  girl.  By  gar,  when  that  Mexican  woman 
tell  me  where  Nelly  Nolan  she  go  and  where  I 
can  find  her,  hall  that  old  love  he  come  back. 
They  say  she  is  leetle  sick.  I  say,  'Sacre  blue, 
I  go  see !'  I  don*  know,  though,  that  I  have  boy 
till  Nelly  tell  me,  and  I  nevaire  see  heem  till 
las'  night.  You  wonder  I  get  the  excitement? 
I  nevaire  have  no  other  boy!" 

"Aren't  you  taking  a  good  deal  for  granted?" 
asked  the  governor,  who  evidently  did  not  pur- 
pose to  be  stampeded.  "I  don't  want  to  cast  a 
stone  at  Sorrel  Nell,  but  mightn't  little  Bill  be 
anybody's  child?" 

Frenchy  cast  an  inquiring  glance  at  the 
sheriff.  "May  I  go  and  get  that  leetle  Beel? 
I  no  run  away." 

"I'll  see  to  it  that  you  don't,"  replied  the 
officer  grimly.  "But  don't  you  make  any  breaks 
in  your  talk  before  that  kid,  or  I'll  wring  your 
neck." 

It  wasn't  a  minute  before  Frenchy  was  back, 
soberly  leading  little  Bill  by  the  hand. 

"Take   off  your   left   shoe,   mon  petit"   said 


32          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

Frenchy  to  the  child.  'Won,  the  other  one.  Don' 
you  know  your  left  side,  that  is  like  me,  close 
to  your  heart?" 

Little  BJ11,  evidently  thinking  that  Frenchy 
was  planning  some  new  game  for  him,  hurried- 
ly complied,  and  then  sat  expectant,  wiggling 
his  pink  toes. 

"See  that  leetle  toe  and  the  nex'  one,"  asked 
Frenchy,  holding  up  the  small  foot — "like  duck 
— what  you  say — with  webness."  You  theenk 
he  gat  that  because  he  was  born  by  beeg 
ocean?"  Non.  I  show  you  where  he  get  that!" 
He  drew  off  his  own  shoe  and  stocking,  and 
showed  his  audience  how  his  own  little  toe  was 
attached  to  its  mate.  "Now,"  said  Frenchy,  his 
excitement  increasing,  "look  at  my  face,  look 
at  my  skin,  look  at  my  hair!  Is  it  not  jus*  the 
same  as  my  boy?" 

Frenchy  was  right.  The  texture  of  his  skin, 
the  color  of  his  eyes  and  hair  were  perfect 
counterparts  of  little  Bills*.  There  was  no 
doubting  it. 

"And  you  took  that  money  because  you 
thought  it  would  save  Nell  Nolan's  life?"  in- 
sisted the  governor.  "Are  you  sure  the  surgeon 
told  her—" 

Frenchy  fumbled  in  his  pocket.  "You  theenk 
I  tell  the  lie?  I  keep  that  letter." 

When  the  governor  had  finished  reading  it 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          83 

he  said  to  the  sheriff:  "Jim,  you  have  your 
political  reputation  to  sustain.  The  people  want 
law-breakers  caught.  Yet  I  think  if  our  friend 
here  should  be  arrested  and  convicted,  I  would 
pardon  him." 

The  sheriff  looked  at  him  severely.  "You 
know  the  law  does  not  permit  a  man  to  do 
crime  because  he  thinks  good  may  come  from 
it."  But,  although  the  voice  was  the  inflexible 
voice  of  justice,  it  was  evident  that  he  was  in 
heavy  mental  seas. 

"I  won't  dispute  you,"  agreed  his  excel- 
lency, "and  while  Frenchy  would  be  properly 
behind  the  bars,  where  would  little  Bill  be?" 

The  sheriff  blew  his  nose  to  cover  his  emo- 
tion. "Little  Bill,"  he  began,  and  his  voice  had 
a  queer  crack  in  it,  "do  you  IOVTB  Frenchy?" 

Little  Bill  nodded  his  head. 

"Do  you  love  him  more  than  me  or  the  gover- 
nor or  Bob?" 

The  boy  evidently  felt  that  this  was  a  time 
for  absolute  honesty  rather  than  for  mere 
politeness.  "Yes,"  he  confessed. 

"Would  you  like  him  for  a  daddy?" 

The  child's  eyes  glistened.  "Could  you  make 
him  my  daddy?" 

The  sheriff,  pulling  fiercely  at  his  mustache, 
let  his  eyes  rest  a  moment  on  the  boy,  then  he 
looked  at  Frenchy,  who,  with  a  white  face,  sat 


84          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

very  quiet.  Finally  he  smote  the  table  a  tre- 
mendous blow  with  his  brawny  fist.  "By 
George,  we  can  and  will!  What's  Christmas 
for?"  A  gentle  note  came  into  his  voice  as  he 
turned  again  to  the  child — a  note,  to  be  exact, 
about  as  gentle  as  a  fog  horn  under  half  steam. 
"You  see,  Bill,  we  are  Wise  Men."  He  glared 
at  Morton  as  though  he  dared  him  to  deny  it, 
then  cleared  his  throat  for  a  final  climaxic  ef- 
fort. "Wise  Men,  if  they  aren't  too  darned 
foolish,  can  pull  off  almost  anything  at  Christ- 
mas and  get  away  with  it,  and  so — and  so  the 
governor,  Bob  and  me  are  personally  and  offi- 
ficially  going  to  make  Frenchy  one  hundred  per 
cent  your  paternal  ancestor."  He  looked  at  the 
governor  and  me  solemnly.  "Remembering  that 
he  held  up  a  stage  driver,  a  state  executive,  a 
peroxided  lady  and  five  common  gents  with  a 
Chink's  busted  pistol,  is  it  agreed?" 

With  equal  solemnity,  we  nodded.  Then, 
very  much  satisfied  with  himself,  the  guardian 
of  the  law  lit  a  match,  held  it  under  the  corner 
of  the  warrant,  and  watched  it  flare  up  and 
burn  to  innocuous  ashes. 


YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST          85 

MY  ARIZONA  BEDROOM 
By  J.   WILLIAM  LLOYD 


O  my  Arizona  bedroom 
Is  beneath  the  Milky  Way, 
And  the  moon  is  in  its  ceiling, 
And  the  stars  that  tell  of  day, 
And  the  mountains  lift  the  corners 
And  the  desert  lays  the  floor 
Of  my  Arizona  bedroom, 
Which  is  large  as  all  outdoor. 

0  my  Arizona  bedroom 
Is  ventilated  right, 
Every  wind  that's  under  heaven 
Comes  to  me  with  blithe  good-night, 
Comes  to  me  with  touch  of  blessing 
And  of  ozone  one  drink  more, 
In  my  Arizona  bedroom, 
Which  is  large  as  all  outdoor. 

O  my  Arizona  bedroom 
Has  the  lightning  on  its  wall, 
And  the  thunders  rap  the  panels 
And  their  heavy  voices  call ; 


36          YARNS  OF  THE  SOUTHWEST 

And  the  night  birds  wing  above  me 
And  the  owl  hoots  galore 
Through  my  Arizona  bedroom 
Which  is  large  as  all  outdoor. 

O  my  Arizona  bedstead, 

It  sometimes  seems  to  me, 

Is  afloat  in  middle  heaven 

With  each  star  an  argosy : 

And  the  tide  that  turns  at  midnight 

Drifts  us  down  to  morning's  shore 

Floats  us,  stars  and  bed  and  bedstead, 

On  the  ocean  of  outdoor. 

O  my  Arizona  bedroom 
Is  beneath  the  splendid  stars, 
And  the  clouds  roll  up  the  curtains 
And  the  windows  have  no  bars, 
And  I  see  my  God  in  heaven 
As  the  ancients  did  of  yore, 
In  my  Arizona  bedroom 
Which  is  large  as  all  outdoor. 


MY  ARIZONA  BEDROOM 

Originally  appeared  in  "The  New  York  Son."  Reprinted 
from  "Songs  of  the  Southwest,"  by  courtesy  of  the  author. 


